THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


-^-- — 4  er^ 


THE  PATRICIAN 


THE  WORKS  OF 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

FICTION 

VILLA  RUBEIN:  AND  OTHER  STORIES 

THE  ISLAND  PHARISEES 

THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 

THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 

FRATERNITY 

THE  PATRICIAN 

THE  DARK  FLOWER 

THE  FREELANDS 

BEYOND 

FIVE  TALES 

SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

TATTERDEMALION 

IN  CHANCERY 

TO  LET 

THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

STUDIES 

A  COMMENTARY 

A  MOTLEY 

THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

THE  LITTLE  MAN 

A  SHEAF 

ANOTHER  SHEAF 

ADDRESSES  IN  AMERICA.  1919 

POEMS 
MOODS,  SONGS  AND  DOGGERELS 

MEMORIES  (ILLUSTRATED) 
AWAKENING  (ILLUSTRATED) 

PLAYS 

FIRST  SERIES:     THE  SILVER  Box 

JOT 

STRIFE 
SECOND  SERIES:  THE  ELDEST  SOH 

THE  LITTLE  DREAM 

JUSTICE 
THIRD  SERIES:    THE  FUGITIVE 

THE  PIGEON 

THE  MOB 
FOCRTH  SERIES:  A  BIT  o'  LOVE 

FOUNDATIONS 

THE  SKIN  GAMFJ 
FIFTH  SERIES:      A  FAMILY  MAK 

LOYALTIES 

WINDOWS 
SIX  SHORT  PLAYS 


THE  PATRICIAN 


BY 

JOHN   GALSWORTHY 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  MOTLEY,"  "  JUSTICE,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1923 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  March,  1911 


College 
Library 

I 

£013 

G-l3 


TO 

GILBERT  MURRAY 


• 

t  I 
JLJL 


o 


PART  I 


THE  PATRICIAN 


CHAPTER  I 

LIGHT,  entering  the  vast  room — a  room  so  high 
that  its  carved  ceiling  refused  itself  to  exact  scrutiny 
— travelled,  with  the  wistful,  cold  curiosity  of  the 
dawn,  over  a  fantastic  store-house  of  Time.  Light, 
unaccompanied  by  the  prejudice  of  human  eyes, 
made  strange  revelation  of  incongruities,  as  though 
illuminating  the  dispassionate  march  of  history. 

For  in  this  dining  hall — one  of  the  finest  in  Eng- 
land— the  Caradoc  family  had  for  centuries  assem- 
bled the  trophies  and  records  of  their  existence. 
Round  about  this  dining  hall  they  had  built  and 
pulled  down  and  restored,  until  the  rest  of  Monk- 
land  Court  presented  some  aspect  of  homogeneity. 
Here  alone  they  had  left  virgin  the  work  of  the  old 
quasi-monastic  builders,  and  within  it  unconsciously 
deposited  their  souls.  For  there  were  here,  meeting 
the  eyes  of  light,  all  those  rather  touching  evidences 
of  man's  desire  to  persist  for  ever,  those  shells  of  his 
former  bodies,  the  fetiches  and  queer  proofs  of  his 
faiths,  together  with  the  remorseless  demonstration 
of  their  treatment  at  the  hands  of  Time. 

The  annalist  might  here  have  found  all  his  needed 
confirmations;  the  analyst  from  this  material  formed 


4  THE  PATRICIAN 

the  due  equation  of  high  birth;  the  philosopher 
traced  the  course  of  aristocracy,  from  its  primeval 
rise  in  crude  strength  or  subtlety,  through  centuries 
of  power,  to  picturesque  decadence,  and  the  begin- 
nings of  its  last  stand.  Even  the  artist  might  here, 
perchance,  have  seized  on  the  dry  ineffable  pervad- 
ing spirit,  as  one  visiting  an  old  cathedral  seems  to 
scent  out  the  constriction  of  its  heart. 

From  the  legendary  sword  of  that  Welsh  chieftain 
who  by  an  act  of  high,  rewarded  treachery  had  passed 
into  the  favour  of  the  conquering  William,  and  re- 
ceived, with  the  widow  of  a  Norman,  many  lands  in 
Devenescire,  to  the  Cup  purchased  for  Geoffrey 
Caradoc,  present  Earl  of  Valleys,  by  subscription  of 
his  Devonshire  tenants  on  the  occasion  of  his  mar- 
riage with  the  Lady  Gertrude  Semmering — no  in- 
signia were  absent,  save  the  family  portraits  in  the 
gallery  of  Valleys  House  in  London.  There  was 
even  an  ancient  duplicate  of  that  yellow  tattered 
scroll  royally  reconfirming  lands  and  title  to  John, 
the  most  distinguished  of  all  the  Caradocs,  who  had 
unfortunately  neglected  to  be  born  in  wedlock,  by 
one  of  those  humorous  omissions  to  be  found  in  the 
genealogies  of  most  old  families.  Yes,  it  was  there, 
almost  cynically  hung  in  a  corner;  for  this  incident, 
though  no  doubt  a  burning  question  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  was  now  but  staple  for  an  ironical  little 
tale,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  descendants  of  John's 
'own'  brother  Edmund  were  undoubtedly  to  be 
found  among  the  cottagers  of  a  parish  not  far 
distant. 


THE  PATRICIAN  5 

Light,  glancing  from  the  suits  of  armour  to  the 
tiger  skins  beneath  them,  brought  from  India  but  a 
year  ago  by  Bertie  Caradoc,  the  younger  son,  seemed 
recording,  how  those,  who  had  once  been  foremost 
by  virtue  of  that  simple  law  of  Nature  which  crowns 
the  adventuring  and  strong,  now  being  almost 
washed  aside  out  of  the  main  stream  of  national  life, 
were  compelled  to  devise  adventure,  lest  they  should 
lose  belief  in  their  own  strength. 

The  unsparing  light  of  that  first  half-hour  of 
summer  morning  recorded  many  other  changes, 
wandering  from  austere  tapestries  to  the  velvety 
carpets,  and  dragging  from  the  contrast  sure  proof 
of  a  common  sense  which  denied  to  the  present 
Earl  and  Countess  the  asceticisms  of  the  past.  And 
then  it  seemed  to  lose  interest  in  this  critical  journey, 
as  though  longing  to  clothe  all  in  witchery.  For  the 
sun  had  risen,  and  through  the  Eastern  windows 
came  pouring  its  level  and  mysterious  joy.  And 
with  it,  passing  in  at  an  open  lattice,  came  a  wild  bee 
to  settle  among  the  flowers  on  the  table  athwart  the 
Eastern  end,  used  when  there  was  only  a  small  party 
in  the  house.  The  hours  fled  on  silent,  till  the  sun 
was  high,  and  the  first  visitors  came — three  maids, 
rosy,  not  silent,  bringing  brushes.  They  passed, 
and  were  followed  by  two  footmen — scouts  of  the 
breakfast  brigade,  who  stood  for  a  moment  profes- 
sionally doing  nothing,  then  soberly  commenced  to 
set  the  table.  Then  came  a  little  girl  of  six,  to  see 
if  there  were  anything  exciting — little  Ann  Shropton, 
child  of  Sir  William  Shropton  by  his  marriage  with 


6  THE  PATRICIAN 

Lady  Agatha,  and  eldest  daughter  of  the  house,  the 
only  one  of  the  four  young  Caradocs  as  yet  wedded. 
She  came  on  tiptoe,  thinking  to  surprise  whatever 
was  there.  She  had  a  broad  little  face,  and  wide 
frank  hazel  eyes  over  a  little  nose  that  came  out 
straight  and  sudden.  Encircled  by  a  loose  belt 
placed  far  below  the  waist  of  her  holland  frock,  as 
if  to  symbolize  freedom,  she  seemed  to  think  every- 
thing in  life  good  fun.  And  soon  she  found  the 
exciting  thing. 

"Here's  a  bumble  bee,  William.  Do  you  think 
I  could  tame  it  in  my  little  glass  box?" 

"No,  I  don't,  Miss  Ann;  and  look  out,  you'll  be 
stung!" 

"It  wouldn't  sting  me." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  it  wouldn't." 

"Of  course — if  you  say  so " 

"What  time  is  the  motor  ordered?" 

"Nine  o'clock." 

"I'm  going  with  Grandpapa  as  far  as  the  gate." 

"Suppose  he  says  you're  not?" 

"Well,  then  I  shall  go  all  the  same." 

"I  see." 

"I  might  go  all  the  way  with  him  to  London!  Is 
Auntie  Babs  going?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  anybody  is  going  with  his  lord- 
ship." 

"I  would,  if  she  were.    William!" 

"Yes." 

"Is  Uncle  Eustace  sure  to  be  elected?" 


THE  PATRICIAN 


7 


*'Of  course  he  is." 

"Do  you  think  he'll  be  a  good  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment?" 

"Lord  Miltoun  is  very  clever,  Miss  Ann." 

"Is  he?" 

"Well,  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Does  Charles  think  so?" 

"Ask  him." 

"William!" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  like  London.  I  like  here,  and  I  like 
Catton,  and  I  like  home  pretty  well,  and  I  love  Pen- 
dridny — and — I  like  Ravensham." 

"His  lordship  is  going  to  Ravensham  to-day  on  his 
way  up,  I  heard  say." 

"Oh!  then  he'll  see  great-granny.    William " 

"Here's  Miss  Wallace." 

From  the  doorway  a  lady  with  a  broad  pale  patient 
face  said: 

"Come,  Ann." 

"All  right!    Hallo,  Simmons!" 

The  entering  butler  replied: 

"Hallo,  Miss  Ann!" 

"I've  got  to  go." 

"I'm  sure  we're  very  sorry." 

"Yes." 

The  door  banged  faintly,  and  in  the  great  room 
rose  the  busy  silence  of  those  minutes  which  precede 
repasts.  Suddenly  the  four  men  by  the  breakfast 
table  stood  back.  Lord  Valleys  had  come  in. 

He  approached  slowly,  reading  a  blue  paper,  with 


8  THE  PATRICIAN 

his  level  grey  eyes  divided  by  a  little  uncharacter- 
istic frown.  He  had  a  tanned  yet  ruddy,  decisively 
shaped  face,  with  crisp  hair  and  moustache  begin- 
ning to  go  iron-grey — the  face  of  a  man  who  knows 
his  own  mind  and  is  contented  with  that  knowledge. 
His  figure  too,  well-braced  and  upright,  with  the 
back  of  the  head  carried  like  a  soldier's,  confirmed 
the  impression,  not  so  much  of  self-sufficiency,  as  of 
the  sufficiency  of  his  habits  of  life  and  thought. 
And  there  was  apparent  about  all  his  movements 
that  peculiar  unconsciousness  of  his  surroundings 
which  comes  to  those  who  live  a  great  deal  in  the 
public  eye,  have  the  material  machinery  of  existence 
placed  exactly  to  their  hands,  and  never  need  to 
consider  what  others  think  of  them.  Taking  his 
seat,  and  still  perusing  the  paper,  he  at  once  began 
to  eat  what  was  put  before  him;  then  noticing  that 
his  eldest  daughter  had  come  in  and  was  sitting 
down  beside  him,  he  said: 

"Bore  having  to  go  up  in  such  weather!" 

"Is  it  a  Cabinet  meeting?" 

"Yes.    This  confounded  business  of  the  balloons." 

But  the  rather  anxious  dark  eyes  of  Agatha's  deli- 
cate narrow  face  were  taking  in  the  details  of  a  tray 
for  keeping  dishes  warm  on  a  sideboard,  and  she 
was  thinking:  "I  believe  that  would  be  better  than 
the  ones  I've  got,  after  all.  If  William  would  only 
say  whether  he  really  likes  these  large  trays  better 
than  single  hot-water  dishes!"  She  contrived  how- 
ever to  ask  in  her  gentle  voice — for  all  her  words 
and  movements  were  gentle,  even  a  little  timid,  till 


THE  PATRICIAN  9 

anything  appeared  to  threaten  the  welfare  of  her  hus- 
band or  children: 

"Do  you  think  this  war  scare  good  for  Eustace's 
prospects,  Father?" 

But  her  father  did  not  answer;  he  was  greeting  a 
new-comer,  a  tall,  fine-looking  young  man,  with  dark 
hair  and  a  fair  moustache,  between  whom  and  him- 
self there  was  no  relationship,  yet  a  certain  negative 
resemblance.  Claud  Fresnay,  Viscount  Harbinger, 
was  indeed  also  a  little  of  what  is  called  the  'Norman' 
type — having  a  certain  firm  regularity  of  feature, 
and  a  slight  aquilinity  of  nose  high  up  on  the  bridge 
— but  that  which  in  the  elder  man  seemed  to  indicate 
only  an  unconscious  acceptance  of  self  as  a  stand- 
ard, in  the  younger  man  gave  an  impression  at  once 
more  assertive  and  more  uneasy,  as  though  he 
were  a  little  afraid  of  not  chaffing  something  all  the 
time. 

Behind  him  had  come  in  a  tall  woman,  of  full 
figure  and  fine  presence,  with  hair  still  brown — Lady 
Valleys  herself.  Though  her  eldest  son  was  thirty, 
she  was,  herself,  still  little  more  than  fifty.  From 
her  voice,  manner,  and  whole  personality,  one  might 
suspect  that  she  had  been  an  acknowledged  beauty; 
but  there  was  now  more  than  a  suspicion  of  maturity 
about  her  almost  jovial  face,  with  its  full  grey-blue 
eyes,  and  coarsened  complexion.  Good  comrade, 
and  essentially  ' woman  of  the  world,'  was  written 
on  every  line  of  her,  and  in  every  tone  of  her  voice. 
She  was  indeed  a  figure  suggestive  of  open  air  and 
generous  living,  endowed  with  abundant  energy,  and 


1C  THE  PATRICIAN 

not  devoid  of  humour.  It  was  she  who  answered 
Agatha's  remark. 

"Of  course,  my  dear,  the  very  best  thing  pos- 
sible." 

Lord  Harbinger  chimed  in: 

"By  the  way,  Brabrook's  going  to  speak  on  it 
Did  you  ever  hear  him,  Lady  Agatha?  'Mr. 
Speaker,  Sir,  I  rise — and  with  me  rises  the  demo- 
cratic principle * " 

But  Agatha  only  smiled,  for  she  was  thinking: 

"If  I  let  Ann  go  as  far  as  the  gate,  she'll  only  make 
it  a  stepping-stone  to  something  else  to-morrow." 
Taking  no  interest  in  public  affairs,  her  inherited 
craving  for  command  had  resorted  for  expression  to 
a  meticulous  ordering  of  household  matters.  It  was 
indeed  a  cult  with  her,  a  passion — as  though  she  felt 
herself  a  sort  of  figurehead  to  national  domesticity; 
the  leader  of  a  patriotic  movement. 

Lord  Valleys,  having  finished  what  seemed  neces- 
sary, arose. 

"Any  message  to  your  mother,  Gertrude?" 

"No,  I  wrote  last  night." 

"Tell  Miltoun  to  keep  an  eye  on  that  Mr.  Cour- 
tier. I  heard  him  speak  one  day — he's  rather  good." 

Lady  Valleys,  who  had  not  yet  sat  down,  accom- 
panied her  husband  to  the  door. 

"By  the  way,  I've  told  Mother  about  this  woman, 
Geoff." 

"Was  it  necessary?" 

"Well,  I  think  so;  I'm  uneasy — after  all,  Mother 
has  some  influence  with  Miltoun." 


THE  PATRICIAN  II 

Lord  Valleys  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  slightly 
squeezing  his  wife's  arm,  went  out. 

Though  himself  vaguely  uneasy  on  that  very  sub- 
ject, he  was  a  man  who  did  not  go  to  meet  disturbance. 
He  had  the  nerves  which  seem  to  be  no  nerves  at  all 
— especially  found  in  those  of  his  class  who  have 
much  to  do  with  horses.  He  temperamentally  re- 
garded the  evil  of  the  day  as  quite  sufficient  to  it. 
Moreover,  his  eldest  son  was  a  riddle  that  he  had 
long  given  up,  so  far  as  women  were  concerned. 

Emerging  into  the  outer  hall,  he  lingered  a  mo- 
ment, remembering  that  he  had  not  seen  his  younger 
and  favourite  daughter. 

"Lady  Barbara  down  yet?"  Hearing  that  she 
was  not,  he  slipped  into  the  motor  coat  held  for  him 
by  Simmons,  and  stepped  out  under  the  white  por- 
tico, decorated  by  the  Caradoc  hawks  in  stone. 

The  voice  of  little  Ann  reached  him,  clear  and  high 
above  the  smothered  whirring  of  the  car. 

"Come  on,  Grandpapa!" 

Lord  Valleys  grimaced  beneath  his  crisp  mous- 
tache— the  word  grandpapa  always  fell  queerly  on 
the  ears  of  one  who  was  but  fifty-six,  and  by  no 
means  felt  it — and  jerking  his  gloved  hand  towards 
Ann,  he  said: 

"Send  down  to  the  lodge  gate  for  this" 

The  voice  of  little  Ann  answered  loudly: 

"No;  I'm  coming  back  by  myself." 

The  car  starting,  drowned  discussion. 

Lord  Valleys,  motoring,  somewhat  pathetically  il- 
lustrated the  invasion  of  institutions  by  their  de- 


12  THE  PATRICIAN 

stroyer,  Science.  A  supporter  of  the  turf,  and  not 
long  since  Master  of  Foxhounds,  most  of  whose  soul 
(outside  politics)  was  in  horses,  he  had  been,  as  it 
were,  compelled  by  common  sense,  not  only  to  toler- 
ate, but  to  take  up  and  even  press  forward  the  cause 
of  their  supplanters.  His  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion was  secretly  at  work,  hurrying  him  to  his  own 
destruction;  forcing  him  to  persuade  himself  that 
science  and  her  successive  victories  ovvr  brute  nature 
could  be  wooed  into  the  service  of  a  prestige  which 
rested  on  a  crystallized  and  stationary  base.  All 
this  keeping  pace  with  the  times,  this  immersion  in 
the  results  of  modern  discoveries,  this  speeding-up 
of  existence  so  that  it  was  all  surface  and  little  root 
— the  increasing  volatility,  cosmopolitanism,  and  even 
commercialism  of  his  life,  on  which  he  rather  prided 
himself  as  a  man  of  the  world — was,  with  a  secrecy 
too  deep  for  his  perception,  cutting  at  the  aloofness 
logically  demanded  of  one  in  his  position.  Stub- 
born, and  not  spiritually  subtle,  though  by  no  means 
dull  in  practical  matters,  he  was  resolutely  letting  the 
waters  bear  him  on,  holding  the  tiller  firmly,  with- 
out perceiving  that  he  was  in  the  vortex  of  a  whirl- 
pool. Indeed,  his  common  sense  continually  im- 
pelled him,  against  the  sort  of  reactionaryism  of 
which  his  son  Miltoun  had  so  much,  to  that  easier 
reactionaryism,  which,  living  on  its  spiritual  capital, 
makes  what  material  capital  it  can  out  of  its  enemy, 
Progress. 

He  drove  the  car  himself,  shrewd  and  self-contained, 
sitting  easily,  with  his  cap  well  drawn  over  those 


THE  PATRICIAN  13 

steady  eyes;  and  though  this  unexpected  meeting  of 
the  Cabinet  in  the  Whitsuntide  recess  was  not  only 
a  nuisance,  but  gave  food  for  anxiety,  he  was  fully 
able  to  enjoy  the  swift  smooth  movement  through 
the  summer  air,  which  met  him  with  such  friendly 
sweetness  under  the  great  trees  of  the  long  avenue. 
Beside  him,  little  Ann  was  silent,  with  her  legs  stuck 
out  rather  wide  apart.  Motoring  was  a  new  excite- 
ment, for  at  home  it  was  forbidden;  and  a  meditative 
rapture  shone  in  her  wide  eyes  above  her  sudden 
little  nose.  Only  once  she  spoke,  when  close  to  the 
lodge  the  car  slowed  down,  and  they  passed  the 
lodgekeeper's  little  daughter. 

"Hallo,  Susie!" 

There  was  no  answer,  but  the  look  on  Susie's 
small  pale  face  was  so  humble  and  adoring  that 
Lord  Valleys,  not  a  very  observant  man,  noticed  it 
with  a  sort  of  satisfaction.  "Yes,"  he  thought, 
somewhat  irrelevantly,  "the  country  is  sound  at 
heart!" 


CHAPTER  II 

AT  Ravensham  House  on  the  borders  of  Richmond 
Park,  suburban  seat  of  the  Casterley  family,  ever 
since  it  became  usual  to  have  a  residence  within  easy 
driving  distance  of  Westminster — in  a  large  conser- 
vatory adjoining  the  hall,  Lady  Casterley  stood  in 
front  of  some  Japanese  lilies.  She  was  a  slender, 
short  old  woman,  with  an  ivory-coloured  face,  a  thin 
nose,  and  keen  eyes  half-veiled  by  delicate  wrinkled 
lids.  Very  still,  in  her  grey  dress,  and  with  grey 
hair,  she  gave  the  impression  of  a  little  figure  carved 
out  of  fine,  worn  steel.  Her  firm,  spidery  hand  held 
a  letter  written  in  free  somewhat  sprawling  style: 

"MONKLAND  COURT, 

"DEVON. 
"MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 

"  Geoffrey  is  motoring  up  to-morrow.  He'll  look  in  on  you 
on  the  way  if  he  can.  This  new  war  scare  has  taken  him  up. 
I  shan't  be  in  Town  myself  till  Miltoun's  election  is  over. 
The  fact  is,  I  daren't  leave  him  down  here  alone.  He  sees  his 
'Anonyma'  every  day.  That  Mr.  Courtier,  who  wrote  the 
book  against  War — rather  cool  for  a  man  who's  been  a  soldier 
of  fortune,  don't  you  think? — is  staying  at  the  inn,  working 
for  the  Radical.  He  knows  her,  too — and,  one  can  only  hope, 
for  Miltoun's  sake,  too  well — an  attractive  person,  with  red 
moustaches,  rather  nice  and  mad.  Bertie  has  just  come  down; 
I  must  get  him  to  have  a  talk  with  Miltoun,  and  see  if  he  can 
find  out  how  the  land  lies.  One  can  trust  Bertie — he's  really 

14 


THE  PATRICIAN  15 

very  astute.  I  must  say,  that  she's  quite  a  sweet-looking 
woman;  but  absolutely  nothing's  known  of  her  here  except 
that  she  divorced  her  husband.  How  does  one  find  out  about 
people?  Miltoun's  being  so  extraordinarily  strait-laced  makes 
it  all  the  more  awkward.  The  earnestness  of  this  rising  gener- 
ation is  most  remarkable.  I  don't  remember  taking  such  a 
serious  view  of  life  in  my  youth." 

Lady  Casterley  lowered  the  coronetted  sheet  of 
paper.  The  ghost  of  a  grimace  haunted  her  face — 
she  had  not  forgotten  her  daughter's  youth.  Raising 
the  letter  again,  she  read  on: 

"I'm  sure  Geoffrey  and  I  feel  years  younger  than  either 
Miltoun  or  Agatha,  though  we  did  produce  them.  One  doesn't 
feel  it  with  Bertie  or  Babs,  luckily.  The  war  scare  is  having 
an  excellent  effect  on  Miltoun's  candidature.  Claud  Har- 
binger is  with  us,  too,  working  for  Miltoun;  but,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  think  he's  after  Babs.  It's  rather  melancholy,  when 
you  think  that  Babs  isn't  quite  twenty — still,  one  can't  expect 
anything  else,  I  suppose,  with  her  looks;  and  Claud  is  rather 
a  fine  specimen.  They  talk  of  him  a  lot  now;  he's  quite 
coming  to  the  fore  among  the  young  Tories." 

Lady  Casterley  again  lowered  the  letter,  and  stood 
listening.  A  prolonged,  muffled  sound  as  of  dis- 
tant cheering  and  groans  had  penetrated  the  great 
conservatory,  vibrating  among  the  pale  petals  of  the 
lilies  and  setting  free  their  scent  in  short  waves  of 
perfume.  She  passed  into  the  hall;  where,  stood  an 
old  man  with  sallow  face  and  long  white  whiskers. 

"What  was  that  noise,  Clifton?" 

"A  posse  of  Socialists,  my  lady,  on  their  way  to 
Putney  to  hold  a  demonstration:  the  people  are 


1 6  THE  PATRICIAN 

hooting  them.  They've  got  blocked  just  outside  the 
gates." 

"Are  they  making  speeches?" 

"They  are  talking  some  kind  of  rant,  my  lady." 

"I'll  go  and  hear  them.  Give  me  my  black 
stick." 

Above  the  velvet-dark,  flat-boughed  cedar  trees, 
which  rose  like  pagodas  of  ebony  on  either  side  of  the 
drive,  the  sky  hung  lowering  in  one  great  purple 
cloud,  endowed  with  sinister  life  by  a  single  white 
beam  striking  up  into  it  from  the  horizon.  Beneath 
this  canopy  of  cloud  a  small  phalanx  of  dusty,  dis- 
hevelled-looking men  and  women  were  drawn  up  in 
the  road,  guarding,  and  encouraging  with  cheers,  a 
tall,  black-coated  orator.  Before  and  behind  this 
phalanx,  a  little  mob  of  men  and  boys  kept  up  an 
accompaniment  of  groans  and  jeering. 

Lady  Casterley  and  her  'major-domo'  stood  six 
paces  inside  the  scrolled  iron  gates,  and  watched. 
The  slight,  steel-coloured  figure  with  steel-coloured 
hair,  was  more  arresting  in  its  immobility  than  all 
the  vociferations  and  gestures  of  the  mob.  Her  eyes 
alone  moved  under  their  half -drooped  lids;  her  right 
hand  clutched  tightly  the  handle  of  her  stick.  The 
speaker's  voice  rose  in  shrill  protest  against  the  ex- 
ploitation of  'the  people';  it  sank  in  ironical  com- 
ment on  Christianity;  it  demanded  passionately  to 
be  free  from  the  continuous  burden  of  '  this  insensate 
militarist  taxation';  it  threatened  that  the  people 
would  take  things  into  their  own  hands. 

Lady  Casterley  turned  her  head: 


THE  PATRICIAN  17 

"He  is  talking  nonsense,  Clifton.  It  is  going  to 
rain.  I  shall  go  in." 

Under  the  stone  porch  she  paused.  The  purple 
cloud  had  broken ;  a  blind  fury  of  rain  was  deluging 
the  fast-scattering  crowd.  A  faint  smile  came  on 
Lady  Casterley's  lips. 

"It  will  do  them  good  to  have  their  ardour  damped 
a  little.  You  will  get  wet,  Clifton — hurry!  I  ex- 
pect Lord  Valleys  to  dinner.  Have  a  room  got 
ready  for  him  to  dress.  He's  motoring  from  Monk- 
land." 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  a  very  high,  white-pannelled  room,  with  but 
little  furniture,  Lord  Valleys  greeted  his  mother-in- 
law  respectfully. 

"Motored  up  in  nine  hours,  Ma'am — not  bad 
going." 

"I  am  glad  you  came.  When  is  Miltoun's  elec- 
tion?" 

"On  the  twenty-ninth." 

"Pity!  He  should  be  away  from  Monkland,  with 
that — anonymous  woman  living  there." 

"Ah!  yes;  you've  heard  of  her!" 

Lady  Casterley  replied  sharply: 

"You're  too  easy-going,  Geoffrey." 

Lord  Valleys  smiled. 

"These  war  scares,"  he  said,  "are  getting  a  bore. 
Can't  quite  make  out  what  the  feeling  of  the  country 
is  about  them." 

Lady  Casterley  rose: 

"It  has  none.  When  war  comes,  the  feeling  will 
be  all  right.  It  always  is.  Give  me  your  arm. 
Are  you  hungry?"  .  .  . 

When  Lord  Valleys  spoke  of  war,  he  spoke  as  one 
who,  since  he  arrived  at  years  of  discretion,  had  lived 
within  the  circle  of  those  who  direct  the  destinies  of 
States.  It  was  for  him — as  for  the  lilies  in  the  great 

18 


THE  PATRICIAN  19 

glass  house — impossible  to  see  with  the  eyes,  or  feel 
with  the  feelings  of  a  flower  of  the  garden  outside. 
Soaked  in  the  best  prejudices  and  manners  of  his 
class,  he  lived  a  life  no  more  shut  off  from  the  gen- 
eral than  was  to  be  expected.  Indeed,  in  some  sort, 
as  a  man  of  facts  and  common  sense,  he  was  fairly 
in  touch  with  the  opinion  of  the  average  citizen.  He 
was  quite  genuine  when  he  said  that  he  believed  he 
knew  what  the  people  wanted  better  than  those  who 
prated  on  the  subject;  and  no  doubt  he  was  right, 
for  temperamentally  he  was  nearer  to  them  than 
their  own  leaders,  though  he  would  not  perhaps  have 
liked  to  be  told  so.  His  man-of-the-world,  political 
shrewdness  had  been  superimposed  by  life  on  a 
nature  whose  prime  strength  was  its  practicality  and 
lack  of  imagination.  It  was  his  business  to  be  effi- 
cient, but  not  strenuous,  or  desirous  of  pushing  ideas 
to  their  logical  conclusions;  to  be  neither  narrow 
nor  puritanical,  so  long  as  the  shell  of  'good  form' 
was  preserved  intact;  to  be  a  liberal  landlord  up  to 
the  point  of  not  seriously  damaging  his  interests; 
to  be  well-disposed  towards  the  arts  until  those  arts 
revealed  that  which  he  had  not  before  perceived;  it 
was  his  business  to  have  light  hands,  steady  eyes,  iron 
nerves,  and  those  excellent  manners  that  have  no 
mannerisms.  It  was  his  nature  to  be  easy-going  as 
a  husband;  indulgent  as  a  father;  careful  and 
straightforward  as  a  politician;  and  as  a  man,  ad- 
dicted to  pleasure,  to  work,  and  to  fresh  air.  He  ad- 
mired, and  was  fond  of  his  wife,  and  had  never 
regretted  his  marriage.  He  had  never  perhaps  re- 


20  THE  PATRICIAN 

gretted  anything,  unless  it  were  that  he  had  not  yet 
won  the  Derby,  or  quite  succeeded  in  getting  his 
special  strain  of  blue-ticked  pointers  to  breed  abso- 
lutely true  to  type.  His  mother-in-law  he  respected, 
as  one  might  respect  a  principle. 

There  was  indeed  in  the  personality  of  that  little 
old  lady  the  tremendous  force  of  accumulated  de- 
cision— the  inherited  assurance  of  one  whose  prestige 
had  never  been  questioned;  who,  from  long  im- 
munity, and  a  certain  clear-cut  matter-of-factness, 
bred  by  the  habit  of  command,  had  indeed  lost  the 
power  of  perceiving  that  her  prestige  ever  could  be 
questioned.  Her  knowledge  of  her  own  mind  was 
no  ordinary  piece  of  learning,  had  not,  in  fact,  been 
learned  at  all,  but  sprang  full-fledged  from  an  active 
dominating  temperament.  Fortified  by  the  necessity, 
common  to  her  class,  of  knowing  thoroughly  the 
more  patent  side  of  public  affairs;  armoured  by 
the  tradition  of  a  culture  demanded  by  leadership; 
inspired  by  ideas,  but  always  the  same  ideas;  own- 
ing no  master,  but  in  servitude  to  her  own  custom  of 
leading,  she  had  a  mind,  formidable  as  the  two- 
edged  swords  wielded  by  her  ancestors  the  Fitz- 
Harolds,  at  Agincourt  or  Poitiers — a  mind  which 
had  ever  instinctively  rejected  that  inner  knowledge 
of  herself  or  of  the  selves  of  others,  produced  by 
those  foolish  practices  of  introspection,  contempla- 
tion, and  understanding,  so  deleterious  to  authority. 
If  Lord  Valleys  was  the  body  of  the  aristocratic 
machine,  Lady  Casterley  was  the  steel  spring  inside 
it.  All  her  life  studiously  unaffected  and  simple  in 


THE  PATRICIAN  2* 

attire;  of  plain  and  frugal  habit;  an  early  riser: 
working  at  something  or  other  from  morning  till 
night,  and  as  little  worn-out  at  seventy-eight  as  most 
women  of  fifty,  she  had  only  one  weak  spot — and 
that  was  her  strength — blindness  as  to  the  nature 
and  size  of  her  place  in  the  scheme  of  things.  She 
was  a  type,  a  force. 

Wonderfully  well  she  went  with  the  room  in  which 
they  were  dining,  whose  grey  walls,  surmounted  by 
a  deep  frieze  painted  somewhat  in  the  style  of  Frago- 
nard,  contained  many  nymphs  and  roses  now  rather 
dim;  with  the  furniture,  too,  which  had  a  look  of 
having  survived  into  times  not  its  own.  On  the 
tables  were  no  flowers,  save  five  lilies  in  an  old  silver 
chalice;  and  on  the  wall  over  the  great  sideboard  a 
portrait  of  the  late  Lord  Casterley. 

She  spoke: 

"I  hope  Miltoun  is  taking  his  own  line?" 

"That's  the  trouble.  He  suffers  from  swollen 
principles — only  wish  he  could  keep  them  out  of  his 
speeches." 

"Let  him  be;  and  get  him  away  from  that  woman 
as  soon  as  his  election's  over.  What  is  her  rea/ 
name?" 

"Mrs.  something  Lees  Noel." 

"How  long  has  she  been  there?" 

"About  a  year,  I  think." 

"And  you  don't  know  anything  about  her?" 

Lord  Valleys  raised  his  shoulders. 

"Ah!"  said  Lady  Casterley;  "exactly!  You're 
letting  the  thing  drift.  I  shall  go  down  myself.  I 


22  THE  PATRICIAN 

suppose  Gertrude  can  have  me?  What  has  that 
Mr.  Courtier  to  do  with  this  good  lady?" 

Lord  Valleys  smiled.  In  this  smile  was  the  whole 
of  his  polite  and  easy-going  philosophy.  "  I  am  no 
meddler,"  it  seemed  to  say;  and  at  sight  of  that 
smile  Lady  Casterley  tightened  her  lips. 

"He  is  a  firebrand,"  she  said.  "I  read  that  book 
of  his  against  War — most  inflammatory.  Aimed  at 
Grant — and  Rosenstern,  chiefly.  I've  just  seen  one 
of  the  results,  outside  my  own  gates.  A  mob  of 
anti-War  agitators." 

Lord  Valleys  controlled  a  yawn. 

"Really?  I'd  no  idea  Courtier  had  any  influ- 
ence." 

"He  is  dangerous.  Most  idealists  are  negligible — 
his  book  was  clever." 

"I  wish  to  goodness  we  could  see  the  last  of  these 
scares,  they  only  make  both  countries  look  foolish," 
muttered  Lord  Valleys. 

Lady  Casterley  raised  her  glass,  full  of  a  blood- 
red  wine.  "The  war  would  save  us,"  she  said. 

"War  is  no  joke." 

"It  would  be  the  beginning  of  a  better  state  of 
things." 

"You  think  so?" 

"We  should  get  the  lead  again  as  a  nation,  and 
Democracy  would  be  put  back  fifty  years." 

Lord  Valleys  made  three  little  heaps  of  salt,  and 
paused  to  count  them;  then,  with  a  slight  uplifting 
of  his  eyebrows,  which  seemed  to  doubt  what  he  was 
going  to  say,  he  murmured:  "I  should  have  said 


THE  PATRICIAN  23 

that  we  were  all  democrats  nowadays.  .  .  .  What 
is  it,  Clifton?" 

"Your  chauffeur  would  like  to  know,  what  time 
you  will  have  the  car?" 

"Directly  after  dinner." 

Twenty  minutes  later,  he  was  turning  through  the 
scrolled  iron  gates  into  the  road  for  London.  It  was 
falling  dark;  and  in  the  tremulous  sky  clouds  were 
piled  up,  and  drifted  here  and  there  with  a  sort  of 
endless  lack  of  purpose.  No  direction  seemed  to 
have  been  decreed  unto  their  wings.  They  had  met 
together  in  the  firmament  like  a  flock  of  giant  mag- 
pies crossing  and  re-crossing  each  others'  flight. 
The  smell  of  rain  was  in  the  air.  The  car  raised  no 
dust,  but  bored  swiftly  on,  searching  out  the  road 
with  its  lamps.  On  Putney  Bridge  its  march  was 
stayed  by  a  string  of  waggons.  Lord  Valleys  looked 
to  right  and  left.  The  river  reflected  the  thousand 
lights  of  buildings  piled  along  her  sides,  lamps  of  the 
embankments,  lanterns  of  moored  barges.  The  sinu- 
ous pallid  body  of  this  great  Creature,  for  ever  gliding 
down  to  the  sea,  roused  in  his  mind  no  symbolic 
image.  He  had  had  to  do  with  her,  years  back,  at 
the  Board  of  Trade,  and  knew  her  for  what  she  was, 
extremely  dirty,  and  getting  abominably  thin  just 
where  he  would  have  liked  her  plump.  Yet,  as  he 
lighted  a  cigar,  there  came  to  him  a  queer  feeling — 
as  if  he  were  in  the  presence  of  a  woman  he  was 
fond  of. 

"I  hope  to  God,"  he  thougnt,  "nothmg'll  come  of 
these  scares!"  The  car  glided  on  into  the  long 


/4  THE  PATRICIAN 

road,  swarming  with  traffic,  towards  the  fashionable 
heart  of  London.  Outside  stationers'  shops,  how- 
ever, the  posters  of  evening  papers  were  of  no  re- 
assuring order. 

'THE  PLOT  THICKENS.' 

'MORE  REVELATIONS.' 

'GRAVE  SITUATION  THREATENED.' 

And  before  each  poster  could  be  seen  a  little  eddy 
in  the  stream  of  the  passers-by — formed  by  persons 
glancing  at  the  news,  and  disengaging  themselves, 
to  press  on  again.  The  Earl  of  Valleys  caught  him- 
self wondering  what  they  thought  of  it!  What  was 
passing  behind  those  pale  rounds  of  flesh  turned 
towards  the  posters? 

Did  they  think  at  all,  these  men  and  women  in 
the  street?  What  was  their  attitude  towards  this 
vaguely  threatened  cataclysm?  Face  after  face, 
stolid  and  apathetic,  expressed  nothing,  no  active 
desire,  certainly  no  enthusiasm,  hardly  any  dread. 
Poor  devils!  The  thing,  after  all,  was  no  more 
within  their  control  than  it  was  within  the  power  of 
ants  to  stop  the  ruination  of  their  ant-heap  by  some 
passing  boy!  It  was  no  doubt  quite  true,  that  the 
people  had  never  had  much  voice  in  the  making  of 
war.  And  the  words  of  a  Radical  weekly,  which  as 
an  impartial  man  he  always  forced  himself  to  read, 
recurred  to  him.  "  Ignorant  of  the  facts,  hypnotized 
by  the  words  'Country'  and  'Patriotism';  in  the 
grip  of  mob-instinct  and  inborn  prejudice  against 


THE  PATRICIAN  25 

the  foreigner;  helpless  by  reason  of  his  patience, 
stoicism,  good  faith,  and  confidence  in  those  above 
him;  helpless  by  reason  of  his  snobbery,  mutual  dis- 
trust, carelessness  for  the  morrow,  and  lack  of  pub- 
lic spirit — in  the  face  of  War  how  impotent  and  to 
be  pitied  is  the  man  in  the  street!"  That  paper, 
though  clever,  always  seemed  to  him  intolerably  hi- 
falutin'! 

It  was  doubtful  whether  he  would  get  to  Ascot  this 
year.  And  his  mind  flew  for  a  moment  to  his  prom- 
ising two-year-old  Casetta;  then  dashed  almost  vio- 
lently, as  though  in  shame,  to  the  Admiralty  and  the 
doubt  whether  they  were  fully  alive  to  possibilities. 
He  himself  occupied  a  softer  spot  of  Government,  one 
of  those  almost  nominal  offices  necessary  to  qualify 
into  the  Cabinet  certain  tried  minds,  for  whom  no 
more  strenuous  post  can  for  the  moment  be  found. 
From  the  Admiralty  again  his  thoughts  leaped  to  his 
mother-in-law.  Wonderful  old  woman!  What  a 
statesman  she  would  have  made!  Too  reactionary! 
Deuce  of  a  straight  line  she  had  taken  about  Mrs. 
Lees  Noel!  And  with  a  connoisseur's  twinge  of 
pleasure  he  recollected  that  lady's  face  and  figure 
seen  that  morning  as  he  passed  her  cottage.  Mys- 
terious or  not,  the  woman  was  certainly  attractive! 
Very  graceful  head  with  its  dark  hair  waved  back 
from  the  middle  over  either  temple — very  charming 
figure,  no  lumber  of  any  sort!  Bouquet  about  her! 
Some  story  or  other,  no  doubt — no  affair  of  his! 
Always  sorry  for  that  sort  of  woman! 

A  regiment  of  Territorials  returning  from  a  inarch 


26  THE  PATRICIAN 

stayed  the  progress  of  his  car.  He  leaned  forward 
watching  them  with  much  the  same  contained, 
shrewd,  critical  look  he  would  have  bent  on  a  pack 
of  hounds.  All  the  mistiness  and  speculation  in  his 
mind  was  gone  now.  Good  stamp  of  man,  would 
give  a  capital  account  of  themselves!  Their  faces, 
flushed  by  a  day  in  the  open,  were  masked  with  pas- 
sivity, or  with  a  half-aggressive,  half-jocular  self- 
consciousness;  they  were  clearly  not  troubled  by 
abstract  doubts,  or  any  visions  of  the  horrors  of  war. 

Someone  raised  a  cheer  'for  the  Terriers!'  Lord 
Valleys  saw  round  him  a  little  sea  of  hats,  rising  and 
falling,  and  heard  a  sound,  rather  shrill  and  tenta- 
tive, swell  into  hoarse,  high  clamour,  and  suddenly 
die  out.  "Seem  keen  enough!"  he  thought.  "Very 
little  does  it!  Plenty  of  fighting  spirit  in  the  coun- 
try." And  again  a  thrill  of  pleasure  shot  through 
him. 

Then,  as  the  last  soldier  passed,  his  car  slowly 
forged  its  way  through  the  straggling  crowd,  press- 
ing on  behind  the  regiment — men  of  all  ages,  youths, 
a  few  women,  young  girls,  who  turned  their  eyes  on 
him  with  a  negligent  stare  as  if  their  lives  were  too 
remote  to  permit  them  to  take  interest  in  this  pas- 
sing man  at  ease. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Ax  Monkland,  that  same  hour,  in  the  little  white- 
washed 'withdrawing-room'  of  a  thatched,  white- 
washed cottage,  two  men  sat  talking,  one  on  either 
side  of  the  hearth ;  and  in  a  low  chair  between  them 
a  dark-eyed  woman  leaned  back,  watching,  the  tips 
of  her  delicate  thin  fingers  pressed  together,  or  held 
out  transparent  towards  the  fire.  A  log,  dropping 
now  and  then,  turned  up  its  glowing  underside; 
and  the  firelight  and  the  lamplight  seemed  so  to  have 
soaked  into  the  white  walls  that  a  wan  warmth 
exuded.  Silvery  dun  moths,  fluttering  in  from  the 
dark  garden,  kept  vibrating,  like  spun  shillings,  over 
a  jade-green  bowl  of  crimson  roses;  and  there  was 
a  scent,  as  ever  in  that  old  thatched  cottage,  of  wood- 
smoke,  flowers,  and  sweetbriar. 

The  man  on  the  left  was  perhaps  forty,  rather 
above  middle  height,  vigorous,  active,  straight,  with 
blue  eyes  and  a  sanguine  face  that  glowed  on  small 
provocation.  His  hair  was  very  bright,  almost  red, 
and  his  fiery  moustaches  which  descended  to  the 
level  of  his  chin,  like  Don  Quixote's  seemed  bristling 
and  charging. 

The  man  on  the  right  was  nearer  thirty,  evidently 
tall,  wiry,  and  very  thin.  He  sat  rather  crumpled, 
in  his  low  armchair,  with  hands  clasped  round  a 

23 


28  THE  PATRICIA!, 

knee;  and  a  little  crucified  smile  haunted  the  lips 
of  his  lean  face,  which,  with  its  parchmenty,  tanned, 
shaven  cheeks,  and  deep-set,  very  living  eyes,  had  a 
certain  beauty. 

These  two  men,  so  extravagantly  unlike,  looked  at 
each  other  like  neighbouring  dogs,  who,  having  long 
decided  that  they  are  better  apart,  suddenly  find  that 
they  have  met  at  some  spot  where  they  cannot  pos- 
sibly have  a  fight.  And  the  woman  watched;  the 
owner,  as  it  were,  of  one,  but  who,  from  sheer  love 
of  dogs,  had  always  stroked  and  patted  the  other. 

"So,  Mr.  Courtier,"  said  the  younger  man,  whose 
dry,  ironic  voice,  like  his  smile,  seemed  defending 
the  fervid  spirit  in  his  eyes;  "all  you  say  only  amounts, 
you  see,  to  a  defence  of  the  so-called  Liberal  spirit; 
and,  forgive  my  candour,  that  spirit,  being  an  im- 
portation from  the  realms  of  philosophy  and  art, 
withers  the  moment  it  touches  practical  affairs. 

The  man  with  the  red  moustaches  laughed;  the 
sound  was  queer — at  once  so  genial  and  so  sardonic. 

"Well  put!"  he  said:  "And  far  be  it  from  me  to 
gainsay.  But  since  compromise  is  the  very  essence 
of  politics,  high-priests  of  caste  and  authority,  like 
you,  Lord  Miltoun,  are  every  bit  as  much  out  of  it 
as  any  Liberal  professor." 

"I  don't  agree!" 

"Agree  or  not,  your  position  towards  public  affairs 
is  very  like  the  Church's  attitude  towards  marriage 
and  divorce;  as  remote  from  the  realities  of  life  as 
the  attitude  of  the  believer  in  Free  Love,  and  not 
more  likely  to  catch  on.  The  death  of  your  point  of 


THE  PATRICIAN  29 

view  lies  in  itself — it's  too  dried-up  and  far  from 
things  ever  to  understand  them.  If  you  don't  under- 
stand you  can  never  rule.  You  might  just  as  well 
keep  your  hands  in  your  pockets,  as  go  into  politics 
with  your  notions!" 

"I  fear  we  must  continue  to  agree  to  differ." 

"Well,  perhaps  I  do  pay  you  too  high  a  compli- 
ment. After  all,  you  are  a  patrician." 

"You  speak  in  riddles,  Mr.  Courtier." 

The  dark-eyed  woman  stirred;  her  hands  gave  a 
sort  of  flutter,  as  though  in  deprecation  of  acerbity. 

Rising  at  once,  and  speaking  in  a  deferential 
voice,  the  elder  man  said: 

"We're  tiring  Mrs.  Noel.  Good-night,  Audrey. 
It's  high  time  I  was  off."  Against  the  darkness  of 
the  open  French  window,  he  turned  round  to  fire  a 
parting  shot. 

"What  I  meant,  Lord  Miltoun,  was  that  your 
class  is  the  driest  and  most  practical  in  the  State- 
it's  odd  if  it  doesn't  save  you  from  a  poet's  dreams. 
Good-night!"  He  passed  out  on  to  the  lawn,  and 
vanished. 

The  young  man  sat  unmoving;  the  glow  of  the 
fire  had  caught  his  face,  so  that  a  spirit  seemed 
clinging  round  his  lips,  gleaming  out  of  his  eyes. 
Suddenly  he  said: 

"Do  you  believe  that,  Mrs.  Noel?" 

For  answer  Audrey  Noel  smiled,  then  rose  and 
went  over  to  the  window. 

"Look  at  my  dear  toad!  It  comes  here  every 
evening!" 


30  THE  PATRICIAN 

On  a  flagstone  of  the  verandah,  in  the  centre  of 
the  stream  of  lamplight,  sat  a  little  golden  toad.  As 
Miltoun  came  to  look,  it  waddled  to  one  side,  and 
vanished. 

"How  peaceful  your  garden  is!"  he  said;  then 
taking  her  hand,  he  very  gently  raised  it  to  his  lips, 
and  followed  his  opponent  out  into  the  darkness. 

Truly  peace  brooded  over  that  garden.  The  Night 
seemed  listening — all  lights  out,  all  hearts  at  rest.  It 
watched,  with  a  little  white  star  for  every  tree,  and 
roof,  and  slumbering  tired  flower,  as  a  mother  watches 
her  sleeping  child,  leaning  above  him  and  counting 
with  her  love  every  hair  of  his  head,  and  all  his  tiny 
tremors. 

Argument  seemed  child's  babble  indeed  under  the 
smile  of  Night.  And  the  face  of  the  woman,  left 
alone  at  her  window,  was  a  little  like  the  face  of  this 
warm,  sweet  night.  It  was  sensitive,  harmonious; 
and  its  harmony  was  not,  as  in  some  faces,  cold 
— but  seemed  to  tremble  and  glow  and  flutter,  as 
though  it  were  a  spirit  which  had  found  its  place 
of  resting. 

In  her  garden,  all  velvety  grey,  with  black  shad- 
ows beneath  the  yew-trees,  the  white  flowers  alone 
seemed  to  be  awake,  and  to  look  at  her  wistfully. 
The  trees  stood  dark  and  still.  Not  even  the  night 
birds  stirred.  Alone,  the  little  stream  down  in  the 
bottom  raised  its  voice,  privileged  when  day  voices 
were  hushed. 

It  was  not  in  Audrey  Noel  to  deny  herself  to  any 
spirit  that  was  abroad;  to  repel  was  an  art  she  did 


THE  PATRICIAN  31 

not  practise.  But  this  night,  though  the  Spirit  of 
Peace  hovered  so  near,  she  did  not  seem  to  know  it. 
Her  hands  trembled,  her  cheeks  were  burning;  her 
breast  heaved,  and  sighs  fluttered  from  her  lips,  just 
parted. 


CHAPTER  V 

EUSTACE  CARADOC,  Viscount  Miltoun,  had  lived 
a  very  lonely  life,  since  he  first  began  to  understand 
the  peculiarities  of  existence.  With  the  exception 
of  Clifton,  his  grandmother's  'major-domo,'  he  made, 
as  a  small  child,  no  intimate  friend.  His  nurses, 
governesses,  tutors,  by  their  own  confession  did  not 
understand  him,  finding  that  he  took  himself  with 
unnecessary  seriousness;  a  little  afraid,  too,  of  one 
whom  they  discovered  to  be  capable  of  pushing 
things  to  the  point  of  enduring  pain  in  silence. 
Much  of  that  early  time  was  passed  at  Ravensham, 
for  he  had  always  been  Lady  Casterley's  favourite 
grandchild.  She  recognized  in  him  the  purposeful 
austerity  which  had  somehow  been  omitted  from  the 
composition  of  her  daughter.  But  only  to  Clifton, 
then  a  man  of  fifty  with  a  great  gravity  and  long 
black  whiskers,  did  Eustace  relieve  his  soul.  "I  tell 
you  this,  Clifton,"  he  would  say,  sitting  on  the  side- 
board, or  the  arm  of  the  big  chair  in  Clifton's  room, 
or  wandering  amongst  the  raspberries,  "because  you 
are  my  friend." 

And  Clifton,  with  his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  and 
a  sort  of  wise  concern  at  his  'friend's'  confidences, 
which  were  sometimes  of  an  embarrassing  descrip- 

32 


THE  PATRICIAN  33 

tion,  would  answer  now  and  then:  "Of  course,  my 
lord,"  but  more  often:  "Of  course,  my  dear." 

There  was  in  this  friendship  something  fine  and 
suitable,  neither  of  these  'friends'  taking  or  suffer- 
ing liberties,  and  both  being  interested  in  pigeons, 
which  they  would  stand  watching  with  a  remarkable 
attention. 

In  course  of  time,  following  the  tradition  of  his 
family,  Eustace  went  to  Harrow.  He  was  there 
five  years — always  one  of  those  boys  a  little  out  at 
wrists  and  ankles,  who  may  be  seen  slouching,  soli- 
tary, along  the  pavement  to  their  own  haunts,  rather 
dusty,  and  with  one  shoulder  slightly  raised  above 
the  other,  from  the  habit  of  carrying  something 
beneath  one  arm.  Saved  from  being  thought  a 
'smug,'  by  his  title,  his  lack  of  any  conspicuous 
scholastic  ability,  his  obvious  independence  of  what 
was  thought  of  him,  and  a  sarcastic  tongue,  which 
no  one  was  eager  to  encounter,  he  remained  the  ugly 
duckling  who  refused  to  paddle  properly  in  the 
green  ponds  of  Public  School  tradition.  He  played 
games  so  badly  that  in  sheer  self-defence  his  fellows 
permitted  him  to  play  without  them.  Of  ' fives' 
they  made  an  exception,  for  in  this  he  attained  much 
proficiency,  owing  to  a  certain  windmill-like  quality 
of  limb.  He  was  noted  too  for  daring  chemical  ex- 
periments, of  which  he  usually  had  one  or  two  brew- 
ing, surreptitiously  at  first,  and  afterwards  by  special 
permission  of  his  house-master,  on  the  principle  that 
if  a  room  must  smell,  it  had  better  smell  openly. 
He  made  few  friendships,  but  these  were  lasting. 


34  THE  PATRICIAN 

His  Latin  was  so  poor,  and  his  Greek  verse  so  vile, 
that  all  had  been  surprised  when  towards  the  finish 
of  his  career  he  showed  a  very  considerable  power 
of  writing  and  speaking  his  own  language.  He  left 
school  without  a  pang.  But  when  in  the  train  he  saw 
the  old  Hill  and  the  old  spire  on  the  top  of  it  fading 
away  from  him,  a  lump  rose  in  his  throat,  he  swal- 
lowed violently  two  or  three  times,  and,  thrusting 
himself  far  back  into  the  carriage  corner,  appeared 
to  sleep. 

At  Oxford,  he  was  happier,  but  still  comparatively 
lonely;  remaining,  so  long  as  custom  permitted,  in 
lodgings  outside  his  College,  and  clinging  thereafter 
to  remote,  panelled  rooms  high  up,  overlooking  the 
gardens  and  a  portion  of  the  city  wall.  It  was  at 
Oxford  that  he  first  developed  that  passion  for  self- 
discipline  which  afterwards  distinguished  him.  He 
took  up  rowing;  and,  though  thoroughly  unsuited 
by  nature  to  this  pastime,  secured  himself  a  place  in 
his  College  'torpid.'  At  the  end  of  a  race  he  was 
usually  supported  from  his  stretcher  in  a  state  of 
extreme  extenuation,  due  to  having  pulled  the  last 
quarter  of  the  course  entirely  with  his  spirit.  The 
same  craving  for  self-discipline  guided  him  in  the 
choice  of  Schools;  he  went  out  in  '  Greats,'  for  which, 
owing  to  his  indifferent  mastery  of  Greek  and  Latin, 
he  was  the  least  fitted.  With  enormous  labour  he 
took  a  very  good  degree.  He  carried  off  besides, 
the  highest  distinctions  of  the  University  for  English 
Essays.  The  ordinary  circles  of  College  life  knew 
nothing  of  him.  Not  once  in  the  whole  course  of  his 


THE  PATRICIAN  35 

University  career,  was  he  the  better  for  wine.  He 
did  not  hunt;  he  never  talked  of  women,  and  none 
talked  of  women  in  his  presence.  But  now  and  then 
he  was  visited  by  those  gusts  which  come  to  the 
ascetic,  when  all  life  seemed  suddenly  caught  up  and 
devoured  by  a  flame  burning  night  and  day,  and 
going  out  mercifully,  he  knew  not  why,  like  a  blown 
candle.  However  unsocial  in  the  proper  sense  of 
the  word,  he  by  no  means  lacked  company  in  these 
Oxford  days.  He  knew  many,  both  dons  and  under- 
graduates. His  long  stride,  and  determined  absence 
of  direction,  had  severely  tried  all  those  who  could 
stomach  so  slow  a  pastime  as  walking  for  the  sake 
of  talking.  The  country  knew  him — though  he 
never  knew  the  country — from  Abingdon  to  Bablock 
Hythe.  His  name  stood  high,  too,  at  the  Union, 
where  he  made  his  mark  during  his  first  term  in  a 
debate  on  a  'Censorship  of  Literature,'  which  he 
advocated  with  gloom,  pertinacity,  and  a  certain 
youthful  brilliance  that  might  well  have  carried  the 
day,  had  not  an  Irishman  got  up  and  pointed  out 
the  danger  hanging  over  the  Old  Testament.  To 
that  he  had  retorted:  "Better,  sir,  it  should  run  a 
risk  than  have  no  risk  to  run."  From  which  mo- 
ment he  was  notable. 

He  stayed  up  four  years,  and  went  down  with  a 
sense  of  bewilderment  and  loss.  The  matured  ver- 
dict of  Oxford  on  this  child  of  hers,  was  "Eustace 
Miltoun!  Ah!  Queer  bird!  Will  make  his  mark!" 

He  had  about  this  time  an  interview  with  his 
father  which  confirmed  the  impression  each  had 


36  THE  PATRICIAN 

formed  of  the  other.  It  took  place  in  the  library  at 
Monkland  Court,  on  a  late  November  afternoon. 

The  light  of  eight  candles  in  thin  silver  candle- 
sticks, four  on  either  side  of  the  carved  stone  hearth, 
illumined  that  room.  Their  gentle  radiance  pene- 
trated but  a  little  way  into  the  great  dark  space  lined 
with  books,  panelled  and  floored  with  black  oak, 
where  the  acrid  fragrance  of  leather  and  dried  rose- 
leaves  seemed  to  drench  the  very  soul  with  the  aroma 
of  the  past.  Above  the  huge  fireplace,  with  light 
falling  on  one  side  of  his  shaven  face,  hung  a  portrait 
— painter  unknown — of  that  Cardinal  Caradoc  who 
suffered  for  his  faith  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Ascetic , 
crucified,  with  a  little  smile  clinging  to  the  lips  and 
deep- set  eyes,  he  presided,  above  the  blueish  flames 
of  a  log  fire. 

Father  and  son  found  some  difficulty  in  beginning. 

Each  of  those  two  felt  as  though  he  were  in  the 
presence  of  someone  else's  very  near  relation.  They 
had,  in  fact,  seen  extremely  little  of  each  other,  and 
not  seen  that  little  long. 

Lord  Valleys  uttered  the  first  remark: 

"Well,  my  dear  fellow,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
now?  I  think  we  can  make  certain  of  this  seat 
down  here,  if  you  like  to  stand." 

Miltoun  had  answered:  "Thanks,  very  much;  I 
don't  think  so  at  present." 

Through  the  thin  fume  of  his  cigar  Lord  Valleys 
watched  that  long  figure  sunk  deep  in  the  chair 
opposite. 

"Why  not?"   he  said.    "You  can't  begin   too 


THE  PATRICIAN  37 

soon;  unless  you  think  you  ought  to  go  round  the 
world." 

" Before  I  can  become  a  man  of  it?" 

Lord  Valleys  gave  a  rather  disconcerted  laugh. 

"There's  nothing  in  politics  you  can't  pick  up  as 
you  go  along,"  he  said.  "How  old  are  you?" 

"Twenty-four." 

"You  look  older."  A  faint  line,  as  of  contempla- 
tion, rose  between  his  eyes.  Was  it  fancy  that  a 
little  smile  was  hovering  about  Miltoun's  lips? 

"I've  got  a  foolish  theory,"  came  from  those  lips, 
"that  one  must  know  the  conditions  first.  I  want 
to  give  at  least  five  years  to  that." 

Lord  Valleys  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Waste  of 
time,"  he  said.  "You'd  know  more  at  the  end  of  it, 
if  you  went  into  the  House  at  once.  You  take  the 
matter  too  seriously." 

"No  doubt." 

For  fully  a  minute  Lord  Valleys  made  no  answer; 
he  felt  almost  ruffled.  Waiting  till  the  sensation 
had  passed,  he  said:  "Well,  my  dear  fellow,  as  you 
please." 

Miltoun's  apprenticeship  to  the  profession  of  poli- 
tics was  served  in  a  slum  settlement;  on  his  father's 
estates;  in  Chambers  at  the  Temple;  in  expeditions 
to  Germany,  America,  and  the  British  Colonies; 
in  work  at  elections;  and  in  two  forlorn  hopes  to 
capture  a  constituency  which  could  be  trusted 
not  to  change  its  principles.  He  read  much,  slowly, 
but  with  conscientious  tenacity,  poetry,  history,  and 
works  on  philosophy,  religion,  and  social  matters. 


38  THE  PATRICIAN 

Fiction,  and  especially  foreign  fiction,  he  did  not 
care  for.  With  the  utmost  desire  to  be  wide  and 
impartial,  he  sucked  in  what  ministered  to  the  wants 
of  his  nature,  rejecting  unconsciously  all  that  by  its 
unsuitability  endangered  the  flame  of  his  private 
spirit.  What  he  read,  in  fact,  served  only  to  strengthen 
those  profounder  convictions  which  arose  from  his 
temperament.  With  a  contempt  of  the  vulgar  gew- 
gaws of  wealth  and  rank  he  combined  a  humble  but 
intense  and  growing  conviction  of  his  capacity  for 
leadership,  of  a  spiritual  superiority  to  those  whom 
he  desired  to  benefit.  There  was  no  trace,  indeed, 
of  the  common  Pharisee  in  Miltoun,  he  was  simple 
and  direct;  but  his  eyes,  his  gestures,  the  whole  man, 
proclaimed  the  presence  of  some  secret  spring  of 
certainty,  some  fundamental  well  into  which  no  dis- 
turbing glimmers  penetrated.  He  was  not  devoid 
of  wit,  but  he  was  devoid  of  that  kind  of  wit  which 
turns  its  eyes  inward,  and  sees  something  of  the  fun 
that  lies  in  being  what  you  are.  Miltoun  saw  the 
world  and  all  the  things  thereof  shaped  like  spires — 
even  when  they  were  circles.  He  seemed  to  have 
no  sense  that  the  Universe  was  equally  compounded 
of  those  two  symbols,  whose  point  of  reconciliation 
had  not  yet  been  discovered. 

Such  was  he,  then,  when  the  Member  for  his  native 
division  was  made  a  peer. 

He  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty  without  ever 
having  been  in  love,  leading  a  life  of  almost  savage 
purity,  with  one  solitary  breakdown.  Women  were 
afraid  of  him.  And  he  was  perhaps  a  little  afraid  of 


THE  PATRICIAN  39 

woman.  She  was  in  theory  too  lovely  and  desirable 
— the  half -moon  in  a  summer  sky;  in  practice  too 
cloying,  or  too  harsh.  He  had  an  affection  for  Bar- 
bara, his  younger  sister;  but  to  his  mother,  his 
grandmother,  or  his  elder  sister  Agatha,  he  had  never 
felt  close.  It  was  indeed  amusing  to  see  Lady 
Valleys  with  her  first-born.  Her  fine  figure,  the 
blown  roses  of  her  face,  her  grey-blue  eyes  which 
had  a  slight  tendency  to  roll,  as  though  amusement 
just  touched  with  naughtiness  bubbled  behind  them, 
were  reduced  to  a  queer,  satirical  decorum  in  Mil- 
toun's  presence.  Thoughts  and  sayings  verging  on 
the  risky  were  characteristic  of  her  robust  physique, 
of  her  soul  which  could  afford  to  express  almost  all 
that  occurred  to  it.  Miltoun  had  never,  not  even  as 
a  child,  given  her  his  confidence.  She  bore  him  no 
resentment,  being  of  that  large,  generous  build  in 
body  and  mind,  rarely — never  in  her  class — associ- 
ated with  the  capacity  for  feeling  aggrieved  or  low- 
ered in  any  estimation,  even  its  own.  He  was,  and 
always  had  been,  an  odd  boy,  and  there  was  an  end 
of  it!  Nothing  had  perhaps  so  disconcerted  Lady 
Valleys  as  his  want  of  behaviour  in  regard  to  women. 
She  felt  it  abnormal,  just  as  she  recognized  the  essen- 
tial if  duly  veiled  normality  of  her  husband  and 
younger  son.  It  was  this  feeling  which  made  her 
realize  almost  more  vividly  than  she  had  time  for, 
in  the  whirl  of  politics  and  fashion,  the  danger  of  his 
friendship  with  this  lady  to  whom  she  alluded  so 
discreetly  as  'Anonyma.' 
Pure  chance  had  been  responsible  for  the  incep- 


40  THE  PATRICIAN 

tion  of  that  friendship.  Going  one  December  after- 
noon to  the  farmhouse  of  a  tenant,  just  killed  by  a 
fall  from  his  horse,  Miltoun  had  found  the  widow 
in  a  state  of  bewildered  grief,  thinly  cloaked  in  the 
manner  of  one  who  had  almost  lost  the  power  to  ex- 
press her  feelings,  and  quite  lost  it  in  presence  of 
'the  gentry/  Having  assured  the  poor  soul  that  she 
need  have  no  fear  about  her  tenancy,  he  was  just 
leaving,  when  he  met,  in  the  stone-flagged  entrance, 
a  lady  in  a  fur  cap  and  jacket,  carrying  in  her  arms 
a  little  crying  boy,  bleeding  from  a  cut  on  the  fore- 
head. Taking  him  from  her  and  placing  him  on  a 
table  in  the  parlour,  Miltoun  looked  at  this  lady, 
and  saw  that  she  was  extremely  grave,  and  soft,  and 
charming.  He  inquired  of  her  whether  the  mother 
should  be  told. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Poor  thing,  not  just  now:  let's  wash  it,  and  bind 
it  up  first." 

Together  therefore  they  washed  and  bound  up  the 
cut.  Having  finished,  she  looked  at  Miltoun,  and 
seemed  to  say:  "You  would  do  the  telling  so  much 
better  than  I." 

He,  therefore,  told  the  mother  and  was  rewarded 
by  a  little  smile  from  the  grave  lady. 

From  that  meeting  he  took  away  the  knowledge  of 
her  name,  Audrey  Lees  Noel,  and  the  remembrance 
of  a  face,  whose  beauty,  under  a  cap  of  squirrel's 
fur,  pursued  him.  Some  days  later  passing  by  the 
village  green,  he  saw  her  entering  a  garden  gate. 
On  this  occasion  he  had  asked  her  whether  she  would 


THE   PATRICIAN  4! 

like  her  cottage  re-thatched;  an  inspection  of  the 
roof  had  followed;  he  had  stayed  talking  a  long 
time.  Accustomed  to  women — over  the  best  of 
whom,  for  all  their  grace  and  lack  of  affectation, 
high-caste  life  had  wrapped  the  manner  which  seems 
to  take  all  things  for  granted — there  was  a  peculiar 
charm  for  Miltoun  in  this  soft,  dark-eyed  lady  who 
evidently  lived  quite  out  of  the  world,  and  had  so 
poignant,  and  shy,  a  flavour.  Thus  from  a  chance 
seed  had  blossomed  swiftly  one  of  those  rare  friend- 
ships between  lonely  people,  which  can  in  short  time 
fill  great  spaces  of  two  lives. 

One  day  she  asked  him:  "You  know  about  me,  I 
suppose?"  Miltoun  made  a  motion  of  his  head, 
signifying  that  he  did.  His  informant  had  been  the 
vicar. 

"Yes,  I  am  told,  her  story  is  a  sad  one — a  di- 


vorce." 


"Do   you   mean   that   she   has   been   divorced, 


For  the  fraction  of  a  second  the  vicar  perhaps  had 
hesitated. 

"Oh!  no  —  no.  Sinned  against,  I  am  sure.  A 
nice  woman,  so  far  as  I  have  seen;  though  I'm  afraid 
not  one  of  my  congregation." 

With  this,  Miltoun,  in  whom  chivalry  had  already 
been  awakened,  was  content.  When  she  asked  if 
he  knew  her  story,  he  would  not  for  the  world  have 
had  her  rake  up  what  was  painful.  Whatever  that 
story,  she  could  not  have  been  to  blame.  She  had 
begun  already  to  be  shaped  by  his  own  spirit;  had 


42  THE  PATRICIAN 

become  not  a  human  being  as  it  was,  but  an  expres- 
sion of  his  aspiration.  .  .  . 

On  the  third  evening  after  his  passage  of  arms 
with  Courtier,  he  was  again  at  her  little  white  cottage 
sheltering  within  its  high  garden  walls.  Smothered 
in  roses,  and  with  a  black-brown  thatch  overhanging 
the  old-fashioned  leaded  panes  of  the  upper  windows, 
it  had  an  air  of  hiding  from  the  world.  Behind,  as 
though  on  guard,  two  pine  trees  spread  their  dark 
boughs  over  the  outhouses,  and  in  any  south-west 
wind  could  be  heard  speaking  gravely  about  the 
weather.  Tall  lilac  bushes  flanked  the  garden,  and 
a  huge  lime-tree  in  the  adjoining  field  sighed  and 
rustled,  or  on  still  days  let  forth  the  drowsy  hum  of 
countless  small  dusky  bees  who  frequented  that 
green  hostelry. 

He  found  her  altering  a  dress,  sitting  over  it  in 
her  peculiar  delicate  fashion — as  if  all  objects  what- 
soever, dresses,  flowers,  books,  music,  required  from 
her  the  same  sympathy. 

He  had  come  from  a  long  day's  electioneering,  had 
been  heckled  at  two  meetings,  and  was  still  sore 
from  the  experience.  To  watch  her,  to  be  soothed, 
and  ministered  to  by  her  had  never  been  so  restful; 
and  stretched  out  in  a  long  chair  he  listened  to  her 
playing. 

Over  the  hill  a  Pierrot  moon  was  slowly  moving 
up  in  a  sky  the  colour  of  grey  irises.  And  in  a  sort 
of  trance  Miltoun  stared  at  the  burnt-out  star,  travel- 
ling in  bright  pallor. 


THE  PATRICIAN  43 

Across  the  moor  a  sea  of  shallow  mist  was  rolling; 
and  the  trees  in  the  valley,  like  browsing  cattle, 
stood  knee-deep  in  whiteness,  with  all  the  air  above 
them  wan  from  an  innumerable  rain  as  of  moon- 
dust,  falling  into  that  white  sea.  Then  the  moon 
passed  behind  the  lime-tree,  so  that  a  great  lighted 
Chinese  lantern  seemed  to  hang  blue-black  from  the 
sky. 

Suddenly,  jarring  and  shivering  the  music,  came  a 
sound  of  hooting.  It  swelled,  died  away,  and  swelled 
again. 

Miltoun  rose. 

"That  has  spoiled  my  vision,"  he  said.  "Mrs. 
Noel,  I  have  something  I  want  to  say."  But  look- 
ing down  at  her,  sitting  so  still,  with  her  hands  rest- 
ing on  the  keys,  he  was  silent  in  sheer  adoration. 

A  voice  from  the  door  ejaculated: 

"Oh!  ma'am — oh!  my  lord!  They're  devilling  a 
gentleman  on  the  green!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  the  immortal  Don  set  out  to  ring  all  the 
bells  of  merriment,  he  was  followed  by  one  clown. 
Charles  Courtier  on  the  other  hand  had  always 
been  accompanied  by  thousands,  who  really  could 
not  understand  the  conduct  of  this  man  with  no  com- 
mercial sense.  But  though  he  puzzled  his  contem- 
poraries, they  did  not  exactly  laugh  at  him,  because 
it  was  reported  that  he  had  really  killed  some  men, 
and  loved  some  women.  They  found  such  a  com- 
bination irresistible,  when  coupled  with  an  appear- 
ance both  vigorous  and  gallant.  The  son  of  an  Ox- 
fordshire clergyman,  and  mounted  on  a  lost  causes 
he  had  been  riding  through  the  world  ever  since  he 
was  eighteen,  without  once  getting  out  of  the  saddle. 
The  secret  of  this  endurance  lay  perhaps  in  his  un- 
consciousness that  he  was  in  the  saddle  at  all.  It 
was  as  much  his  natural  seat  as  office  stools  to  other 
mortals.  He  made  no  capital  out  of  errantry,  his 
temperament  being  far  too  like  his  red-gold  hair, 
which  people  compared  to  flames,  consuming  all 
before  them.  His  vices  were  patent;  too  incurable 
an  optimism;  an  admiration  for  beauty  such  as 
must  sometimes  have  caused  him  to  forget  which 
woman  he  was  most  in  love  with;  too  thin  a  skin; 
too  hot  a  heart;  hatred  of  humbug,  and  habitual 

44 


THE  PATRICIAN  45 

neglect  of  his  own  interest.  Unmarried,  and  with 
many  friends,  and  many  enemies,  he  kept  his  body 
like  a  sword-blade,  and  his  soul  always  at  white  heat. 

That  one  who  admitted  to  having  taken  part  in 
five  wars  should  be  mixing  in  a  by-election  in  the 
cause  of  Peace,  was  not  so  inconsistent  as  might  be 
supposed;  for  he  had  always  fought  on  the  losing 
side,  and  there  seemed  to  him  at  the  moment  no 
side  so  losing  as  that  of  Peace.  No  great  politician, 
he  was  not  an  orator,  nor  even  a  glib  talker;  yet  a 
quiet  mordancy  of  tongue,  and  the  white-hot  look 
in  his  eyes,  never  failed  to  make  an  impression  of 
some  kind  on  an  audience. 

.There  was,  however,  hardly  a  corner  of  England 
where  orations  on  behalf  of  Peace  had  a  poorer 
chance  than  the  Bucklandbury  division.  To  say 
that  Courtier  had  made  himself  unpopular  with  its 
matter-of-fact,  independent,  stolid,  yet  quick-tem- 
pered population,  would  be  inadequate.  He  had 
outraged  their  beliefs,  and  roused  the  most  profound 
suspicions.  They  could  not,  for  the  life  of  them, 
make  out  what  he  was  at.  Though  by  his  adventures 
and  his  book,  "Peace — a  lost  Cause,"  he  was,  in 
London,  a  conspicuous  figure,  they  had  naturally 
never  heard  of  him;  and  his  adventure  to  these  parts 
seemed  to  them  an  almost  ludicrous  example  of  pure 
idea  poking  its  nose  into  plain  facts — the  idea  that 
nations  ought  to,  and  could  live  in  peace  being  so 
very  pure;  and  the  fact  that  they  never  had,  so  very 
plain! 

At  Monkland,  which  was  all  Court  estate,  there 


46  THE  PATRICIAN 

were  naturally  but  few  supporters  of  Miltoun's  op- 
ponent, Mr.  Humphrey  Chilcox,  and  the  reception 
accorded  to  the  champion  of  Peace  soon  passed  from 
curiosity  to  derision,  from  derision  to  menace,  till 
Courtier's  attitude  became  so  defiant,  and  his  sen- 
tences so  heated  that  he  was  only  saved  from  a 
rough  handling  by  the  influential  interposition  of  the 
vicar. 

Yet  when  he  began  to  address  them  he  had  felt 
irresistibly  attracted.  They  looked  such  capital,  in- 
dependent fellows.  Waiting  for  his  turn  to  speak, 
he  had  marked  them  down  as  men  after  his  own 
heart.  For  though  Courtier  knew  that  against  an 
unpopular  idea  there  must  always  be  a  majority,  he 
never  thought  so  ill  of  any  individual  as  to  sup- 
pose him  capable  of  belonging  to  that  ill-omened 
body. 

Surely  these  fine,  independent  fellows  were  not  to 
be  hoodwinked  by  the  Jingoes!  It  had  been  one 
more  disillusion.  He  had  not  taken  it  lying  down; 
neither  had  his  audience.  They  dispersed  without 
forgiving;  they  came  together  again  without  having 
forgotten. 

The  village  Inn,  a  little  white  building  whose  small 
windows  were  overgrown  with  creepers,  had  a  single 
guest's  bedroom  on  the  upper  floor,  and  a  little 
sitting-room  where  Courtier  took  his  meals.  The 
rest  of  the  house  was  but  stone-floored  bar  with  a 
long  wooden  bench  against  the  back  wall,  whence 
nightly  a  stream  of  talk  would  issue,  all  harsh  a's, 
and  sudden  soft  u's;  whence  too  a  figure,  a  little 


THE  PATRICIAN  47 

unsteady,  would  now  and  again  emerge,  to  a  chorus 
of  'Gude  naights,'  stand  still  under  the  ash-trees 
to  light  his  pipe,  then  move  slowly  home. 

But  on  that  evening,  when  the  trees,  like  cattle, 
stood  knee-deep  in  the  moon-dust,  those  who  came 
out  from  the  bar-room  did  not  go  away;  they  hung 
about  in  the  shadows,  and  were  joined  by  other 
figures  creeping  furtively  through  the  bright  moon- 
light, from  behind  the  Inn.  Presently  more  figures 
moved  up  from  the  lanes  and  the  churchyard  path, 
till  thirty  or  more  were  huddled  there,  and  their 
stealthy  murmur  of  talk  distilled  a  rare  savour  of 
illicit  joy.  Unholy  hilarity,  indeed,  seemed  lurking 
in  the  deep  tree-shadow,  before  the  wan  Inn,  whence 
from  a  single  lighted  window  came  forth  the  half- 
chanting  sound  of  a  man's  voice  reading  out  loud. 
Laughter  was  smothered,  talk  whispered. 

"He'm  a-practisin'  his  spaches."  "Smoke  the 
cunnin'  old  vox  out!"  "Red  pepper's  the  proper 
stuff."  "See  mun  sneeze!  We've  a-scriied  up  the 
door." 

Then,  as  a  face  showed  at  the  lighted  window,  a 
burst  of  harsh  laughter  broke  the  hush. 

He  at  the  window  was  seen  struggling  violently  to 
wrench  away  a  bar.  The  laughter  swelled  to  hoot- 
ing. The  prisoner  forced  his  way  through,  dropped 
to  the  ground,  rose,  staggered,  and  fell. 

A  voice  said  sharply: 

"What's  this?" 

Out  of  the  sounds  of  scuffling  and  scattering  came 
the  whisper:  "His  lordship!"  And  the  shade  under 


48  THE  PATRICIAN 

the  ash-trees  became  deserted,  save  by  the  tall  dark 
figure  of  a  man,  and  a  woman's  white  shape. 
"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Courtier?    Are  you  hurt?" 
A  chuckle  rose  from  the  recumbent  figure. 
"Only  my  knee.    The  beggars!    They  precious 
nearly  choked  me,  though." 


CHAPTER  VII 

BERTIE  CARADOC,  leaving  the  smoking-room  at 
Monkland  Court  that  same  evening,  on  his  way  to 
bed,  went  to  the  Georgian  corridor,  where  his  pet 
barometer  was  hanging.  To  look  at  the  glass  had 
become  the  nightly  habit  of  one  who  gave  all  the 
time  he  could  spare  from  his  profession  to  hunting 
in  the  winter  and  to  racing  in  the  summer. 

The  Hon.  Hubert  Caradoc,  an  apprentice  to  the 
calling  of  diplomacy,  more  completely  than  any  living 
Caradoc  embodied  the  characteristic  strength  and 
weaknesses  of  that  family.  He  was  of  fair  height, 
and  wiry  build.  His  weathered  face,  under  sleek, 
dark  hair,  had  regular,  rather  small  features,  and 
wore  an  expression  of  alert  resolution,  masked  by 
impassivity.  Over  his  inquiring,  hazel-grey  eyes  the 
lids  were  almost  religiously  kept  half  drawn.  He 
had  been  born  reticent,  and  great,  indeed,  was  the 
emotion  under  which  he  suffered  when  the  whole  of 
his  eyes  were  visible.  His  nose  was  finely  chiselled, 
and  had  little  flesh.  His  lips,  covered  by  a  small, 
dark  moustache,  scarcely  opened  to  emit  his  speeches, 
which  were  uttered  in  a  voice  singularly  muffled,  yet 
unexpectedly  quick.  The  whole  personality  was  that 
of  a  man  practical,  spirited,  guarded,  resourceful, 
with  great  power  of  self-control,  who  looked  at  life 

49 


50  THE  PATRICIAN 

as  if  she  were  a  horse  under  him,  to  whom  he  must 
give  way  just  so  far  as  was  necessary  to  keep  mastery 
of  her.  A  man  to  whom  ideas  were  of  no  value, 
except  when  wedded  to  immediate  action ;  essentially 
neat;  demanding  to  be  'done  well,'  but  capable  of 
stoicism  if  necessary;  urbane,  yet  always  in  readi- 
ness to  thrust;  able  only  to  condone  the  failings  and 
to  compassionate  the  kinds  of  distress  which  his  own 
experience  had  taught  him  to  understand.  Such 
was  Miltoun's  younger  brother  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
six. 

Having  noted  that  the  glass  was  steady,  he  was 
about  to  seek  the  stairway,  when  he  saw  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  entrance-hall  three  figures  ad- 
vancing arm-in-arm.  Habitually  both  curious  and 
wary,  he  waited  till  they  came  within  the  radius  of  a 
lamp;  then,  seeing  them  to  be  those  of  Miltoun  and 
a  footman,  supporting  between  them  a  lame  man,  he 
at  once  hastened  forward. 

"Have  you  put  your  knee  out,  sir?  Hold  on  a 
minute!  Get  a  chair,  Charles." 

Seating  the  stranger  in  this  chair,  Bertie  rolled  up 
the  trouser,  and  passed  his  fingers  round  the  knee. 
There  was  a  sort  of  loving-kindness  in  that  move- 
ment, as  of  a  hand  which  had  in  its  time  felt  the 
joints  and  sinews  of  innumerable  horses. 

"H'm!"  he  said;  "can  you  stand  a  bit  of  a  jerk? 
Catch  hold  of  him  behind,  Eustace.  Sit  down  on 
the  floor,  Charles,  and  hold  the  legs  of  the  chair. 
Now  then!"  And  taking  up  the  foot,  he  pulled. 
There  was  a  click,  a  little  noise  of  teeth  ground  to- 


THE  PATRICIAN  51 

gether;  and  Bertie  said:  "Good  man — shan't  have 
to  have  the  vet.  to  you,  this  time." 

Having  conducted  their  lame  guest  to  a  room  in 
the  Georgian  corridor  hastily  converted  to  a  bed- 
room, the  two  brothers  presently  left  him  to  the  at- 
tentions of  the  footman. 

"Well,  old  man,"  said  Bertie,  as  they  sought  their 
rooms;  "that's  put  paid  to  his  name — won't  do  you 
any  more  harm  this  journey.  Good  plucked  one, 
though!" 

The  report  that  Courtier  was  harboured  beneath 
their  roof  went  the  round  of  the  family  before  break- 
fast, through  the  agency  of  one  whose  practice  it  was 
to  know  all  things,  and  to  see  that  others  partook  of 
that  knowledge.  Little  Ann,  paying  her  customary 
morning  visit  to  her  mother's  room,  took  her  stand 
with  face  turned  up  and  hands  clasping  her  belt, 
and  began  at  once. 

"Uncle  Eustace  brought  a  man  last  night  with  a 
wounded  leg,  and  Uncle  Bertie  pulled  it  out  straight. 
William  says  that  Charles  says  he  only  made  a  noise 
like  this" — there  was  a  faint  sound  of  small  chump- 
ing  teeth:  "And  he's  the  man  that's  staying  at  the 
Inn,  and  the  stairs  were  too  narrow  to  carry  him  up, 
William  says;  and  if  his  knee  was  put  out  he  won't 
be  able  to  walk  without  a  stick  for  a  long  time.  Can 
I  go  to  Father?" 

Agatha,  who  was  having  her  hair  brushed,  thought : 

"I'm  not  sure  whether  belts  so  low  as  that  aie 
wholesome,"  murmured:  "Wait  a  minute!" 

But  little  Ann  was  gone;  and  her  voice  could  be 


52  THE  PATRICIAN 

heard  in  the  dressing-room  climbing  up  towards  Sir 
William,  who  from  the  sound  of  his  replies,  was  mani- 
festly shaving.  When  Agatha,  who  never  could  re- 
sist a  legitimate  opportunity  of  approaching  her  hus- 
band, looked  in,  he  was  alone,  and  rather  thoughtful 
— a  tall  man  with  a  solid,  steady  face  and  cautious 
eyes,  not  in  truth  remarkable  except  to  his  own  wife. 

"That  fellow  Courtier's  caught  by  the  leg,"  he 
said.  "Don't  know  what  your  Mother  will  say  to 
an  enemy  in  the  camp." 

"Isn't  he  a  freethinker,  and  rather " 

Sir.  William,  following  his  own  thoughts,  inter- 
rupted : 

"  Just  as  well,  of  course,  so  far  as  Miltoun's  con- 
cerned, to  have  got  him  here." 

Agatha  sighed:  "Well,  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to 
be  nice  to  him.  I'll  tell  Mother." 

Sir  William  smiled. 

"Ann  will  see  to  that,"  he  said. 

Ann  was  seeing  to  that. 

Seated  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window  behind  the 
looking-glass,  where  Lady  Valleys  was  still  occupied, 
she  was  saying: 

"He  fell  out  of  the  window  because  of  the  red 
pepper.  Miss  Wallace  says  he  is  a  hostage — what 
does  hostage  mean,  Granny?" 

When  six  years  ago  that  word  had  first  fillen  on 
Lady  Valleys'  ears,  she  had  thought:  "Oh!  dear! 
Am  I  really  Granny?"  It  had  been  a  shock,  had 
seemed  the  end  of  so  much;  but  the  matter-of-fact 
heroism  of  women,  so  much  quicker  to  accept  the 


THE  PATRICIAN  53 

inevitable  than  men,  had  soon  come  to  her  aid,  and 
now,  unlike  her  husband,  she  did  not  care  a  bit. 
For  all  that  she  answered  nothing,  partly  because  it 
was  not  necessary  to  speak  in  order  to  sustain  a  con- 
versation with  little  Ann,  and  partly  because  she  was 
deep  in  thought. 

The  man  was  injured!  Hospitality,  of  course — 
especially  since  their  own  tenants  had  committed  the 
outrage !  Still,  to  welcome  a  man  who  had  gone  out 
of  his  way  to  come  down  here  and  stump  the  coun- 
try against  her  own  son,  was  rather  a  tall  order.  It 
might  have  been  worse,  no  doubt.  If,  for  instance, 
he  had  been  some  ' impossible'  Nonconformist 
Radical!  This  Mr.  Courtier  was  a  free  lance — 
rather  a  well-known  man,  an  interesting  creature. 
She  must  see  that  he  felt  'at  home'  and  comfortable. 
If  he  were  pumped  judiciously,  no  doubt  one  could 
find  out  about  this  woman.  Moreover,  the  accept- 
ance of  their  'salt'  would  silence  him  politically  if 
she  knew  anything  of  that  type  of  man,  who  always 
had  something  in  him  of  the  Arab's  creed.  Her 
mind,  that  of  a  capable  administrator,  took  in  all 
the  practical  significance  of  this  incident,  which,  al- 
though untoward,  was  not  without  its  comic  side  to 
one  disposed  to  find  zest  and  humour  in  everything 
that  did  not  absolutely  run  counter  to  her  interests 
and  philosophy. 

The  voice  of  little  Ann  broke  in  on  her  reflec- 
tions. 

"I'm  going  to  Auntie  Babs  now." 

"Very  well;  give  me  a  kiss  first." 


54  THE  PATRICIAN 

Little  Ann  thrust  up  her  face,  so  that  its  sudden 
little  nose  penetrated  Lady  Valleys'  soft  curving 
lips.  .  .  . 

When  early  that  same  afternoon  Courtier,  leaning 
;  on  a  stick,  passed  from  his  room  out  on  to  the  ter- 
'race,  he  was  confronted  by  three  sunlit  peacocks 
marching  slowly  across  a  lawn  towards  a  statue  of 
Diana.  With  incredible  dignity  those  birds  moved, 
as  if  never  in  their  lives  had  they  been  hurried. 
They  seemed  indeed  to  know  that  when  they  got 
there,  there  would  be  nothing  for  them  to  do  but  to 
come  back  again.  Beyond  them,  through  the  tall 
trees,  over  some  wooded  foot-hills  of  the  moorland 
and  a  promised  land  of  pinkish  fields,  pasture,  and 
orchards,  the  prospect  stretched  to  the  far  sea.  Heat 
clothed  this  view  with  a  kind  of  opalescence,  a  fairy 
garment,  transmuting  all  values,  so  that  the  four 
square  walls  and  tall  chimneys  of  the  pottery-works 
a  few  miles  down  the  valley  seemed  to  Courtier  like 
a  vision  of  some  old  fortified  Italian  town.  His  sen- 
sations, finding  himself  in  this  galley,  were  peculiar. 
For  his  feeling  towards  Miltoun,  whom  he  had  twice 
met  at  Mrs.  Noel's,  was,  in  spite  of  disagreements, 
by  no  means  unfriendly;  while  his  feeling  towards 
Miltoun's  family  was  not  yet  in  existence.  Having 
lived  from  hand  to  mouth,  and  in  many  countries, 
since  he  left  Westminster  School,  he  had  now  prac- 
tically no  class  feelings.  An  attitude  of  hostility  to 
aristocracy  because  it  was  aristocracy,  was  as  in- 
comprehensible to  him  as  an  attitude  of  deference. 


THE  PATRICIAN  55 

His  sensations  habitually  shaped  themselves  in  ac- 
cordance with  those  two  permanent  requirements 
of  his  nature,  liking  for  adventure,  and  hatred  of 
tyranny.  The  labourer  who  beat  his  wife,  the  shop- 
man who  sweated  his  'hands,'  the  parson  who  con- 
signed his  parishioners  to  hell,  the  peer  who  rode 
roughshod — all  were  equally  odious  to  him.  He 
thought  of  people  as  individuals,  and  it  was,  as  it 
were,  by  accident  that  he  had  conceived  the  class 
generalization  which  he  had  fired  back  at  Miltoun 
from  Mrs.  Noel's  window.  Sanguine,  accustomed 
to  queer  environments,  and  always  catching  at  the 
moment  as  it  flew,  he  had  not  to  fight  with  the 
timidities  and  irritations  of  a  nervous  temperament. 
His  cheery  courtesy  was  only  disturbed  when  he 
became  conscious  of  some  sentiment  which  appeared 
to  him  mean  or  cowardly.  On  such  occasions,  not 
perhaps  infrequent,  his  face  looked  as  if  his  heart 
were  physically  fuming,  and  since  his  shell  of  stoi- 
cism was  never  quite  melted  by  this  heat,  a  very 
peculiar  expression  was  the  result,  a  sort  of  calm, 
sardonic,  desperate,  jolly  look. 

His  chief  feeling,  then,  at  the  outrage  which  had 
laid  him  captive  in  the  enemy's  camp,  was  one  of 
vague  amusement,  and  curiosity.  People  round 
about  spoke  fairly  well  of  this  Caradoc  family. 
There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  lack  of  kindly  feeling 
between  them  and  their  tenants;  there  was  said  to 
be  no  griping  destitution,  nor  any  particular  ill- 
housing  on  their  estate.  And  if  the  inhabitants 
were  not  encouraged  to  improve  themselves,  they 


56  THE  PATRICIAN 

were  at  all  events  maintained  at  a  certain  level,  by 
steady  and  not  ungenerous  supervision.  When  a 
roof  required  thatching  it  was  thatched;  when  a 
man  became  too  old  to  work,  he  was  not  suffered  to 
Japse  into  the  Workhouse.  In  bad  years  for  wool, 
or  beasts,  or  crops,  the  farmers  received  a  graduated 
remission  of  rent.  The  pottery-works  were  run  on 
a  liberal  if  autocratic  basis.  It  was  true  that  though 
Lord  Valleys  was  said  to  be  a  staunch  supporter  of 
a  'back  to  the  land'  policy,  no  disposition  was  shown 
to  encourage  people  to  settle  on  these  particular 
lands,  no  doubt  from  a  feeling  that  such  settlers 
would  not  do  them  so  much  justice  as  their  present 
owner.  Indeed  so  firmly  did  this  conviction  seem- 
ingly obtain,  that  Lord  Valleys'  agent  was  not  un- 
frequently  observed  to  be  buying  a  little  bit  more. 

But,  since  in  this  life  one  notices  only  what  in- 
terests him,  all  this  gossip,  half  complimentary,  half 
not,  had  fallen  but  lightly  on  the  ears  of  the  cham- 
pion of  Peace  during  his  campaign,  for  he  was,  as 
has  been  said,  but  a  poor  politician,  and  rode  his 
own  horse  very  much  his  own  way. 

While  he  stood  there  enjoying  the  view,  he  heard 
a  small  high  voice,  and  became  conscious  of  a  little 
girl  in  a  very  shady  hat  so  far  back  on  her  brown 
hair  that  it  did  not  shade  her;  and  of  a  small  hand 
put  out  in  front.  He  took  the  hand,  and  answered: 

"Thank  you,  I  am  well — and  you?"  perceiving 
the  while  that  a  pair  of  wide  frank  eyes  were  examin- 
ing his  leg. 

"Does  it  hurt?" 


THE  PATRICIAN  57 

"Not  to  speak  of." 

"My  pony's  leg  was  blistered.  Granny  is  coming 
to  look  at  it." 

"I  see." 

"I  have  to  go  now.  I  hope  you'll  soon  be  better,! 
Good-bye!" 

Then,  instead  of  the  little  girl,  Courtier  saw  a  tall 
and  rather  florid  woman  regarding  him  with  a  sort 
of  quizzical  dignity.  She  wore  a  stiffish  fawn-col- 
oured dress  that  seemed  to  be  cut  a  little  too  tight 
round  her  substantial  hips,  for  it  quite  neglected  to 
embrace  her  knees.  She  had  on  no  hat,  no  gloves, 
no  ornaments,  except  the  rings  on  her  fingers,  and  a 
little  jewelled  watch  in  a  leather  bracelet  on  her 
wrist.  There  was,  indeed,  about  her  whole  figure 
an  air  of  almost  professional  escape  from  finery. 

Stretching  out  a  well-shaped  but  not  small  hand, 
she  said: 

"I  most  heartily  apologize  to  you,  Mr.  Courtier." 

"Not  at  all." 

"I  do  hope  you're  comfortable.  Have  they  given 
you  everything  you  want?" 

"More  than  everything." 

"It  really  was  disgraceful!  However  it's  brought 
us  the  pleasure  of  making  your  acquaintance.  I've 
read  your  book,  of  course." 

To  Courtier  it  seemed  that  on  this  lady's  face  had 
come  a  look  which  seemed  to  say:  Yes,  very  clever 
and  amusing,  quite  enjoyable!  But  the  ideas? 
What  ?  You  know  very  well  they  won't  do — in  fact 
they  mustn't  do! 


5£  THE  PATRICIAN 

''That's  very  nice  of  you." 

But  into  Lady  Valleys'  answer,  "I  don't  agree 
with  it  a  bit,  you  know!"  there  had  crept  a  touch  of 
asperity,  as  though  she  knew  that  he  had  smiled 
inside.  "What  we  want  preached  in  these  days  are 
the  warlike  virtues — especially  by  a  warrior." 

"Believe  me,  Lady  Valleys,  the  warlike  virtues 
are  best  left  to  men  of  more  virgin  imagination." 

He  received  a  quick  look,  and  the  words:  "Any- 
way, I'm  sure  you  don't  care  a  rap  for  politics.  You 
know  Mrs.  Lees  Noel,  don't  you?  What  a  pretty 
woman  she  is!" 

But  as  she  spoke  Courtier  saw  a  young  girl  com- 
ing along  the  terrace.  She  had  evidently  been  rid- 
ing, for  she  wore  high  boots  and  a  skirt  which  had 
enabled  her  to  sit  astride.  Her  eyes  were  blue,  and 
her  hair — the  colour  of  beech-leaves  in  autumn  with 
the  sun  shining  through — was  coiled  up  tight  under 
a  small  soft  hat.  She  was  tall,  and  moved  towards 
them  like  one  endowed  with  great  length  from  the 
hip  joint  to  the  knee.  Joy  of  life,  serene,  uncon- 
scious vigour,  seemed  to  radiate  from  her  whole  face 
and  figure. 

At  Lady  Valleys'  words: 

"Ah,  Babs!  My  daughter  Barbara — Mr.  Cour- 
tier," he  put  out  his  hand,  received  within  it  some 
gauntleted  fingers  held  out  with  a  smile,  and  heard 
her  say: 

"  Miltoun's  gone  up  to  Town,  Mother;  I  was  going 
to  motor  in  to  Bucklandbury  with  a  message  he  gave 
me;  so  I  can  fetch  Granny  out  from  the  station." 


THE  PATRICIAN  59 

"You  had  better  take  Ann,  or  she'll  make  our 
lives  a  burden;  and  perhaps  Mr.  Courtier  would 
like  an  airing.  Is  your  knee  fit,  do  you  think?" 

Glancing  at  the  apparition,  Courtier  replied: 

"It  is." 

Never  since  the  age  of  seven  had  he  been  able  to 
look  on  feminine  beauty  without  a  sense  of  warmth 
and  faint  excitement;  and  seeing  now  perhaps  the 
most  beautiful  girl  he  had  ever  beheld,  he  desired  to 
be  with  her  wherever  she  might  be  going.  There 
was  too  something  very  fascinating  in  the  way  she 
smiled,  as  if  she  had  a  little  seen  through  his  senti- 
ments. 

"Well  then,"  she  said,  "we'd  better  look  for  Ann." 

After  short  but  vigorous  search  little  Ann  was 
found — in  the  car,  instinct  having  told  her  of  a  for- 
ward movement  in  which  it  was  her  duty  to  take 
part.  And  soon  they  had  started,  Ann  between 
them  in  that  peculiar  state  of  silence  to  which  she 
became  liable  when  really  interested! 

From  the  Monkland  estate,  flowered,  lawned,  and 
timbered,  to  the  open  moor,  was  like  passing  to 
another  world;  for  no  sooner  was  the  last  lodge  of 
the  Western  drive  left  behind,  than  there  came  into 
sudden  view  the  most  pagan  bit  of  landscape  in  all 
England.  In  this  wild  parliament-house,  clouds, 
rocks,  sun,  and  winds  met  and  consulted.  The 
'old'  men,  too,  had  left  their  spirits  among  the  great 
stones,  which  lay  couched  like  lions  on  the  hill-tops, 
under  the  white  clouds,  and  their  brethren,  the  hunt- 
ing buzzard  hawks.  Here  the  very  rocks  were  rest- 


60  THE  PATRICIAN 

less,  changing  form,  and  sense,  and  colour  from  day 
to  day,  as  though  worshipping  the  unexpected,  and 
refusing  themselves  to  law.  The  winds  too  in  their 
passage  revolted  against  their  courses,  and  came 
tearing  down  wherever  there  were  combes  or  cran- 
nies, so  that  men  in  their  shelters  might  still  learn 
the  power  of  the  wild  gods. 

The  wonders  of  this  prospect  were  entirely  lost  on 
little  Ann,  and  somewhat  so  on  Courtier,  deeply  en- 
gaged in  reconciling  those  two  alien  principles,  cour- 
tesy, and  the  love  of  looking  at  a  pretty  face.  He  was 
wondering  too  what  this  girl  of  twenty,  who  had  the 
self-possession  of  a  woman  of  forty,  might  be  think- 
ing. It  was  little  Ann  who  broke  the  silence. 

"Auntie  Babs,  it  wasn't  a  very  strong  house,  was 
it?" 

Courtier  looked  in  the  direction  of  her  small  finger. 
There  was  the  wreck  of  a  little  house,  which  stood 
close  to  a  stone  man  who  had  obviously  possessed 
that  hill  before  there  were  men  of  flesh.  Over  one 
corner  of  the  sorry  ruin,  a  single  patch  of  roof  still 
clung,  but  the  rest  was  open. 

"He  was  a  silly  man  to  build  it,  wasn't  he,  Ann? 
That's  why  they  call  it  Ashman's  Folly." 

"Is  he  alive?" 

"Not  quite — it's  just  a  hundred  years  ago." 

"What  made  him  build  it  here?" 

"He  hated  women,  and — the  roof  fell  in  on  him." 

"Why  did  he  hate  women?" 

"He  was  a  crank." 

"What  is  a  crank?" 


THE  PATRICIAN  61 

"Ask  Mr.  Courtier." 

Under  this  girl's  calm  quizzical  glance,  Courtier 
endeavoured  to  find  an  answer  to  that  question. 

"A  crank,"  he  said  slowly,  "is  a  man  like  me." 

He  heard  a.  little  laugh,  and  became  acutely  con- 
scious of  Ann's  dispassionate  examining  eyes. 

"Is  Uncle  Eustace  a  crank?" 

"You  know  now,  Mr.  Courtier,  what  Ann  thinks 
of  you.  You  think  a  good  deal  of  Uncle  Eustace, 
don't  you,  Ann?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ann,  and  fixed  her  eyes  before  her. 
But  Courtier  gazed  sideways  over  her  hatless  head. 

His  exhilaration  was  increasing  every  moment. 
This  girl  reminded  him  of  a  two-year-old  filly  he  had 
once  seen,  stepping  out  of  Ascot  paddock  for  her 
first  race,  with  the  sun  glistening  on  her  satin  chest- 
nut skin,  her  neck  held  high,  her  eyes  all  fire — as 
sure  to  win,  as  that  grass  was  green.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  believe  her  Miltoun's  sister.  It  was  difficult 
to  believe  any  of  those  four  young  Caradocs  related. 
The  grave  ascetic  Miltoun,  wrapped  in  the  garment 
of  his  spirit;  mild,  domestic,  strait-laced  Agatha; 
Bertie,  muffled,  shrewd,  and  steely;  and  this  frank, 
joyful  conquering  Barbara — the  range  was  wide. 

But  the  car  had  left  the  moor,  and,  down  a  steep 
hill,  was  passing  the  small  villas  and  little  grey 
workmen's  houses  outside  the  town  of  Bucklandbury. 

"Ann  and  I  have  to  go  on  to  Miltoun's  head- 
quarters. Shall  I  drop  you  at  the  enemy's,  Mr. 
Courtier?  Stop,  please,  Frith." 

And  before  Courtier  could  assent,  they  had  pulled 


62  THE  PATRICIAN 

up  at  a  house  on  which  was  inscribed  with  extraor- 
dinary vigour:  "Chilcox  for  Bucklandbury." 

Hobbling  into  the  Committee-room  of  Mr.  Hum- 
phrey Chilcox,  which  smelled  of  paint,  Courtier  took 
with  him  the  scented  memory  of  youth,  and  amber- 
gris, and  Harris  tweed. 

In  that  room  three  men  were  assembled  round  a 
table;  the  eldest  of  whom,  endowed  with  little  grey 
eyes,  a  stubbly  beard,  and  that  mysterious  some- 
thing only  found  in  those  who  have  been  mayors, 
rose  at  once  and  came  towards  him. 

"Mr.  Courtier,  I  believe,"  he  said  bluffly.  "Glad 
to  see  you,  sir.  Most  distressed  to  hear  of  this  out- 
rage. Though  in  a  way,  it's  done  us  good.  Yes, 
really.  Grossly  against  fair  play.  Shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  it  turned  a  couple  of  hundred  votes.  You 
carry  the  effects  of  it  about  with  you,  I  see." 

A  thin,  refined  man,  with  wiry  hair,  also  came  up, 
holding  a  newspaper  in  his  hand. 

"It  has  had  one  rather  embarrassing  effect,"  he 
said.  "Read  this: 

'OUTRAGE  ON  A  DISTINGUISHED  VISITOR. 
'LORD  MILTOUN'S  EVENING  ADVENTURE.'" 

Courtier  read  a  paragraph. 

The  man  with  the  little  eyes  broke  the  ominous 
silence  which  ensued. 

"One  of  our  side  must  have  seen  the  whole  thing, 
jumped  on  his  bicycle  and  brought  in  the  account 
before  they  went  to  press.  They  make  no  imputa- 


THE  PATRICIAN  63 

tion  on  the  lady — simply  state  the  facts.  Quite 
enough,"  he  added  with  impersonal  grimness;  "I 
think  he's  done  for  himself,  sir." 

The  man  with  the  refined  face  added  nervously : 

"We  couldn't  help  it,  Mr.  Courtier;  I  really  don't 
know  what  we  can  do.  I  don't  like  it  a  bit." 

"Has  your  candidate  seen  this?"  Courtier  asked. 

"Can't  have,"  struck  in  the  third  Committee-man; 
"we  hadn't  seen  it  ourselves  until  an  hour  ago." 

"I  should  never  have  permitted  it,"  said  the  man 
with  the  refined  face;  "I  blame  the  editor  greatly." 

"Come  to  that "  said  the  little-eyed  man, 

"  it's  a  plain  piece  of  news.  If  it  makes  a  stir,  that's 
not  our  fault.  The  paper  imputes  nothing,  it  states. 
Position  of  the  lady  happens  to  do  the  rest.  Can't 
help  it,  and  moreover,  sir,  speaking  for  self,  don't 
want  to.  We'll  have  no  loose  morals  in  public  life 
down  here,  please  God!"  There  was  real  feeling  in 
his  words;  then,  catching  sight  of  Courtier's  face, 
he  added:  "Do  you  know  this  lady?" 

"Ever  since  she  was  a  child.  Anyone  who  speaks 
evil  of  her,  has  to  reckon  with  me." 

The  man  with  the  refined  face  said  earnestly: 

"Believe  me,  Mr.  Courtier,  I  entirely  sympathize. 
We  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  paragraph.  It's  one 
of  those  incidents  where  one  benefits  against  one's 
will.  Most  unfortunate  that  she  came  out  on  to  the 
green  with  Lord  Miltoun ;  you  know  what  people  are." 

"It's  the  head-line  that  does  it,"  said  the  third 
Committee-man;  "they've  put  what  will  attract  the 
public." 


64  THE  PATRICIAN 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  little-eyed 
man  stubbornly;  "if  Lord  Miltoun  will  spend  his 
evenings  with  lonely  ladies,  he  can't  blame  anybody 
but  himself." 

Courtier  looked  from  face  to  face. 

"This  closes  my  connection  with  the  campaign," 
he  said:  "What's  the  address  of  this  paper?"  And 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  took  up  the  journal 
and  hobbled  from  the  room.  He  stood  a  minute 
outside  finding  the  address,  then  made  his  way  down 
the  street. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BY  the  side  of  little  Ann,  Barbara  sat  leaning  back 
amongst  the  cushions  of  the  car.  In  spite  of  being 
already  launched  into  high-caste  life  which  brings 
with  it  an  early  knowledge  of  the  world,  she  had  still 
some  of  the  eagerness  in  her  face  which  makes  chil- 
dren lovable.  Yet  she  looked  negligently  enough  at 
the  citizens  of  Bucklandbury,  being  already  a  little 
conscious  of  the  strange  mixture  of  sentiment  pecu- 
liar to  her  countrymen  in  presence  of  herself — that 
curious  expression  on  their  faces  resulting  from  the 
continual  attempt  to  look  down  their  noses  while 
slanting  their  eyes  upwards.  Yes,  she  was  already 
alive  to  that  mysterious  glance  which  had  built  the 
national  house  and  insured  it  afterwards — foe  to 
cynicism,  pessimism,  and  anything  French  or  Rus- 
sian; parent  of  all  the  national  virtues,  and  all  the 
national  vices;  of  idealism  and  muddleheadedness, 
of  independence  and  servility;  fosterer  of  conduct, 
murderer  of  speculation;  looking  up,  and  looking 
down,  but  never  straight  at  anything;  most  high, 
most  deep,  most  queer;  and  ever  bubbling-up  from 
the  essential  Well  of  Emulation. 

Surrounded  by  that  glance,  waiting  for  Courtier, 
Barbara,  not  less  British  than  her  neighbours,  was 
secretly  slanting  her  own  eyes  up  and  down  over  the 

65 


66  THE  PATRICIAN 

absent  figure  of  her  new  acquaintance.  She  too 
wanted  something  she  could  look  up  to,  and  at  the 
same  time  see  damned  first.  And  in  this  knight- 
errant  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  got  it. 

He  was  a  creature  from  another  world.  She  had 
met  many  men,  but  not  as  yet  one  quite  of  this  sort. 
It  was  rather  nice  to  be  with  a  clever  man,  who  had 
none  the  less  done  so  many  outdoor  things,  been 
through  so  many  bodily  adventures.  The  mere 
writers,  or  even  the  l  Bohemians,'  whom  she  occa- 
sionally met,  were  after  all  only  'chaplains  to  the 
Court,'  necessary  to  keep  aristocracy  in  touch  with 
the  latest  developments  of  literature  and  art.  But 
this  Mr.  Courtier  was  a  man  of  action ;  he  could  not 
be  looked  on  with  the  amused,  admiring  toleration 
suited  to  men  remarkable  only  for  ideas,  and  the  way 
they  put  them  into  paint  or  ink.  He  had  used,  and 
could  use,  the  sword,  even  in  the  cause  of  Peace. 
He  could  love,  had  loved,  or  so  they  said.  If  Bar- 
bara had  been  a  girl  of  twenty  in  another  class,  she 
would  probably  never  have  heard  of  this,  and  if  she 
had  heard,  it  might  very  well  have  dismayed  or 
shocked  her.  But  she  had  heard,  and  without  shock, 
because  she  had  already  learned  that  men  were  like 
that,  and  women  too  sometimes. 

It  was  with  quite  a  little  pang  of  concern  that  she 
saw  him  hobbling  down  the  street  towards  her;  and 
when  he  was  once  more  seated,  she  told  the  chauffeur: 
"To  the  station,  Frith.  Quick,  please!"  and  began: 

"You  are  not  to  be  trusted  a  bit.  What  were  you 
doing?" 


THE  PATRICIAN  67 

But  Courtier  smiled  grimly  over  the  head  of  Ann, 
in  silence. 

At  this,  almost  the  first  time  she  had  ever  yet  en- 
countered a  distinct  rebuff,  Barbara  quivered,  as 
though  she  had  been  touched  lightly  with  a  whip. 
Her  lips  closed  firmly,  her  eyes  began  to  dance. 
"Very  well,  my  dear,"  she  thought.  But  presently 
stealing  a  look  at  him,  she  became  aware  of  such  a 
queer  expression  on  his  face,  that  she  forgot  she  was 
offended. 

"Is  anything  wrong,  Mr.  Courtier?" 

"Yes,  Lady  Barbara,  something  is  very  wrong — 
that  miserable  mean  thing,  the  human  tongue." 

Barbara  had  an  intuitive  knowledge  of  how  to 
handle  things,  a  kind  of  moral  sangfroid,  drawn  in 
from  the  faces  she  had  watched,  the  talk  she  had 
heard,  from  her  youth  up.  She  trusted  those  intu- 
itions, and  letting  her  eyes  conspire  with  his  over 
Ann's  brown  hair,  she  said: 

"Anything  to  do  with  Mrs.  N ?"  Seeing 

"Yes"  in  his  eyes,  she  added  quickly:  "And 
M ?" 

Courtier  nodded. 

"I  thought  that  was  coming.  Let  them  babble! 
Who  cares?" 

She  caught  an  approving  glance,  and  the  word, 
"Good!" 

But  the  car  had  drawn  up  at  Bucklandbury 
Station. 

The  little  grey  figure  of  Lady  Casterley,  coming 
out  of  the  station  doorway,  showed  but  slight  sign 


68  THE  PATRICIAN 

of  her  long  travel.  She  stopped  to  take  the  car  in, 
from  chauffeur  to  Courtier. 

"Well,  Frith! — Mr.  Courtier,  is  it?  I  know  your 
book,  and  I  don't  approve  of  you ;  you're  a  danger- 
ous man — How  do  you  do  ?  I  must  have  those  two 
bags.  The  cart  can  bring  the  rest.  .  .  .  Randle, 
get  up  in  front,  and  don't  get  dusty.  Ann!"  But 
Ann  was  already  beside  the  chauffeur,  having  long 
planned  this  improvement.  "H'm!  So  you've  hurt 
your  leg,  sir?  Keep  still!  We  can  sit  three.  .  .  . 
Now,  my  dear,  I  can  kiss  you!  You've  grown!" 

Lady  Casterley's  kiss,  once  received,  was  never 
forgotten ;  neither  perhaps  was  Barbara's.  Yet  they 
were  different.  For,  in  the  case  of  Lady  Casterley, 
the  old  eyes,  bright  and  investigating,  could  be 
seen  deciding  the  exact  spot  for  the  lips  to  touch; 
then  the  face  with  its  firm  chin  was  darted  forward; 
the  lips  paused  a  second,  as  though  to  make  quite 
certain,  then  suddenly  dug  hard  and  dry  into  the 
middle  of  the  cheek,  quavered  for  the  fraction  of  a 
second  as  if  trying  to  remember  to  be  soft,  and  were 
relaxed  like  the  elastic  of  a  catapult.  And  in  the 
case  of  Barbara,  first  a  sort  of  light  came  into  her 
eyes,  then  her  chin  tilted  a  little,  then  her  lips  pouted 
a  little,  her  body  quivered,  as  if  it  were  getting  a 
size  larger,  her  hair  breathed,  there  was  a  small 
sweet  sound;  it  was  over. 

Thus  kissing  her  grandmother,  Barbara  resumed 
her  seat,  and  looked  at  Courtier.  'Sitting  three*  as 
they  were,  he  was  touching  her,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
somehow  that  he  did  not  mind. 


THE  PATRICIAN  69 

The  wind  had  risen,  blowing  from  the  West,  and 
sunshine  was  flying  on  it.  The  call  of  the  cuckoos 
— a  little  sharpened — followed  the  swift-travelling 
car.  And  that  essential  sweetness  of  the  moor,  born 
of  the  heather  roots  and  the  South- West  wind,  was 
stealing  out  from  under  the  young  ferns. 

With  her  thin  nostrils  distended  to  this  scent,  Lady 
Casterley  bore  a  distinct  resemblance  to  a  small,  fine 
game-bird. 

"You  smell  nice  down  here,"  she  said.  "Now, 
Mr.  Courtier,  before  I  forget — who  is  this  Mrs. 
Lees  Noel  that  I  hear  so  much  of?" 

At  that  question,  Barbara  could  not  help  sliding 
her  eyes  round.  How  would  he  stand  up  to  Granny  ? 
It  was  the  moment  to  see  what  he  was  made  of. 
Granny  was  terrific! 

"A  very  charming  woman,  Lady  Casterley." 

"No  doubt ;  but  I  am  tired  of  hearing  that.  What 
is  her  story?" 

"Has  she  one?" 

"Ha!"  said  Lady  Casterley. 

Ever  so  slightly  Barbara  let  her  arm  press  against 
Courtier's.  It  was  so  delicious  to  hear  Granny  get- 
ting no  forwarder. 

"I  may  take  it  she  has  a  past,  then?" 

"Not  from  me,  Lady  Casterley." 

Again  Barbara  gave  him  that  imperceptible  and 
flattering  touch. 

"Well,  this  is  all  very  mysterious.  I  shall  find  out 
for  myself.  You  know  her,  my  dear.  You  must  take 
me  to  see  her." 


70  THE  PATRICIAN 

"Dear  Granny/  If  people  hadn't  pasts,  they 
wouldn't  have  futures." 

Lady  Casterley  let  her  little  claw-like  hand  descend 
on  her  granddaughter's  thigh. 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  and  don't  stretch  like  that!" 
she  said;  "you're  too  large  already.  .  .  ." 

At  dinner  that  night  they  were  all  in  possession  of 
the  news.  Sir  William  had  been  informed  by  the 
local  agent  at  Staverton,  where  Lord  Harbinger's 
speech  had  suffered  from  some  rude  interruptions. 
The  Hon.  Geoffrey  Winlow,  having  sent  his  wife  on, 
had  flown  over  in  his  biplane  from  Winkleigh,  and 
brought  a  copy  of  'the  rag'  with  him.  The  one  mem- 
ber of  the  small  house-party  who  had  not  heard  the 
report  before  dinner  was  Lord  Dennis  Fitz-Harold, 
Lady  Casterley's  brother. 

Little,  of  course,  was  said.  But  after  the  ladies 
had  withdrawn,  Harbinger,  with  that  plain-spoken 
spontaneity  which  was  so  unexpected,  perhaps  a 
little  intentionally  so,  in  connection  with  his  almost 
classically  formed  face,  uttered  words  to  the  effect 
that,  if  they  did  not  fundamentally  kick  that  rumour, 
it  was  all  up  with  Miltoun.  Really  this  was  serious! 
And  the  beggars  knew  it,  and  they  were  going  to 
work  it.  And  Miltoun  had  gone  up  to  Town,  no 
one  knew  what  for.  It  was  the  devil  of  a  mess ! 

In  all  the  conversation  of  this  young  man  there 
was  that  peculiar  brand  of  voice  which  seems  ever 
rebutting  an  accusation  of  being  serious — a  brand  of 
voice  and  manner  warranted  against  anything  save 
ridicule;  and  in  the  face  of  ridicule  apt  to  disappear. 


THE  PATRICIAN  71 

The  words,  just  a  little  satirically  spoken:    "What 
is,  my  dear  young  man?"  stopped  him  at  once. 

Looking  for  the  complement  and  counterpart  of 
Lady  Casterley,  one  would  perhaps  have  singled  out 
her  brother.  All  her  abrupt  decision  was  negated 
in  his  profound,  ironical  urbanity.  His  voice  and 
look  and  manner  were  like  his  velvet  coat,  which  had 
here  and  there  a  whitish  sheen,  as  if  it  had  been 
touched  by  moonlight.  His  hair  too  had  that  sheen. 
His  very  delicate  features  were  framed  in  a  white 
beard  and  moustache  of  Elizabethan  shape.  His 
eyes,  hazel  and  still  clear,  looked  out  very  straight, 
with  a  certain  dry  kindliness.  His  face,  though  un- 
weathered  and  unseamed,  and  much  too  fine  and 
thin  in  texture,  had  a  curious  affinity  to  the  faces  of 
old  sailors  or  fishermen  who  have  lived  a  simple, 
practical  life  in  the  light  of  an  overmastering  tradi- 
tion. It  was  the  face  of  a  man  with  a  very  set  creed, 
and  inclined  to  be  satiric  towards  innovations,  ex- 
amined by  him  and  rejected  full  fifty  years  ago. 
One  felt  that  a  brain  not  devoid  either  of  subtlety  or 
aesthetic  quality  had  long  given  up  all  attempts  to 
interfere  with  conduct ;  that  all  shrewdness  of  specu- 
lation had  given  place  to  shrewdness  of  practical 
judgment  based  on  very  definite  experience.  Owing 
to  lack  of  advertising  power,  natural  to  one  so  con- 
scious of  his  dignity  as  to  have  lost  all  care  for  it, 
and  to  his  devotion  to  a  certain  lady,  only  closed  by 
death,  his  life  had  been  lived,  as  it  were,  in  shadow. 
Still,  he  possessed  a  peculiar  influence  in  Society, 
because  it  was  known  to  be  impossible  to  get  him  to 


72  THE  PATRICIAN 

look  at  things  in  a  complicated  way.  He  was  re- 
garded rather  as  a  last  resort,  however.  "Bad  as 
that?  Well,  there's  old  Fitz-Harold!  Try  him! 
He  won't  advise  you,  but  he'll  say  something." 

And  in  the  heart  of  that  irreverent  young  man, 
Harbinger,  there  stirred  a  sort  of  misgiving.  Had 
he  expressed  himself  too  freely?  Had  he  said  any- 
thing too  thick?  He  had  forgotten  the  old  boy! 
Stirring  Bertie  up  with  his  foot,  he  murmured: 
"Forgot  you  didn't  know,  sir.  Bertie  will  explain." 

Thus  called  on,  Bertie,  opening  his  lips  a  very 
little  way,  and  fixing  his  half-closed  eyes  on  his 
great-uncle,  explained.  There  was  a  lady  at  the 
cottage — a  nice  woman — Mr.  Courtier  knew  her — 
old  Miltoun  went  there  sometimes — rather  late  the 
other  evening — these  devils  were  making  the  most 
of  it — suggesting — lose  him  the  election,  if  they 
didn't  look  out.  Perfect  rot,  of  course! 

In  his  opinion,  old  Miltoun,  though  as  steady  as 
Time,  had  been  a  flat  to  let  the  woman  come  out 
with  him  on  to  the  Green,  showing  clearly  where  he 
had  been,  when  he  ran  to  Courtier's  rescue.  You 
couldn't  play  about  with  women  who  had  no  form 
that  anyone  knew  anything  of,  however  promising 
they  might  look. 

Then,  out  of  a  silence  Winlow  asked:  What  was 
to  be  done?  Should  Miltoun  be  wired  for?  A 
thing  like  this  spread  like  wildfire!  Sir  William — a 
man  not  accustomed  to  underrate  difficulties — was 
afraid  it  was  going  to  be  troublesome.  Harbinger 
expressed  the  opinion  that  the  editor  ought  to  be 


THE  PATRICIAN  73 

kicked.  Did  anybody  know  what  Courtier  had  done 
when  he  heard  of  it.  Where  was  he — dining  in  his 
room?  Bertie  suggested  that  if  Miltoun  was  at 
Valleys  House,  it  mightn't  be  too  late  to  wire  to  him. 
The  thing  ought  to  be  stemmed  at  once!  And  in 
all  this  concern  about  the  situation  there  kept  crop- 
ping out  quaint  little  outbursts  of  desire  to  disre- 
gard the  whole  thing  as  infernal  insolence,  and  meta- 
phorically to  punch  the  beggars'  heads,  natural  to 
young  men  of  breeding. 

Then,  out  of  another  silence  came  the  voice  of 
Lord  Dennis: 

"I  am  thinking  of  this  poor  lady." 

Turning  a  little  abruptly  towards  that  dry  suave 
voice,  and  recovering  the  self-possession  which  sel- 
dom deserted  him,  Harbinger  murmured: 

"Quite  so,  sir;  of  course!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  the  lesser  withdrawing  room,  used  when  there 
was  so  small  a  party,  Mrs.  Winlow  had  gone  to  the 
piano  and  was  playing  to  herself,  for  Lady  Casterley, 
Lady  Valleys,  and  her  two  daughters  had  drawn  to- 
gether as  though  united  to  face  this  invading  rumour. 

It  was  curious  testimony  to  Miltoun's  character 
that,  no  more  here  than  in  the  dining-hall,  was  there 
any  doubt  of  the  integrity  of  his  relations  with  Mrs. 
Noel.  But  whereas,  there  the  matter  was  confined 
to  its  electioneering  aspect,  here  that  aspect  was  al- 
ready perceived  to  be  only  the  fringe  of  its  import- 
ance. Those  feminine  minds,  going  with  intuitive 
swiftness  to  the  core  of  anything  which  affected  their 
own  males,  had  already  grasped  the  fact  that  the 
rumour  would,  as  it  were,  chain  a  man  of  Miltoun's 
temper  to  this  woman. 

But  they  were  walking  on  such  a  thin  crust  of 
facts,  and  there  was  so  deep  a  quagmire  of  supposi- 
tion beneath,  that  talk  was  almost  painfully  difficult. 
Never  before  perhaps  had  each  of  these  four  women 
realized  so  clearly  how  much  Miltoun — that  rather 
strange  and  unknown  grandson,  son,  and  brother — 
counted  in  the  scheme  of  existence.  Their  sup- 
pressed agitation  was  manifested  in  very  different 
ways.  Lady  Casterley,  upright  in  her  chair,  showed 

74 


THE  PATRICIAN  75 

it  only  by  an  added  decision  of  speech,  a  continual 
restless  movement  of  one  hand,  a  thin  line  between 
her  usually  smooth  brows.  Lady  Valleys  wore  a 
puzzled  look,  as  if  a  little  surprised  that  she  felt  seri- 
ous. Agatha  looked  frankly  anxious.  She  was  in 
her  quiet  way  a  woman  of  much  character,  endowed 
with  that  natural  piety,  which  accepts  without  ques- 
tioning the  established  order  in  life  and  religion. 
The  world  to  her  being  home  and  family,  she  had  a 
real,  if  gently  expressed,  horror  of  all  that  she  in- 
stinctively felt  to  be  subversive  of  this  ideal.  People 
judged  her  a  little  quiet,  dull,  and  narrow;  they 
compared  her  to  a  hen  for  ever  clucking  round  her 
chicks.  The  streak  of  heroism  that  lay  in  her  nature 
was  not  perhaps  of  patent  order.  Her  feeling  about 
her  brother's  situation  however  was  sincere  and  not 
to  be  changed  or  comforted.  She  saw  him  in  danger 
of  being  damaged  in  the  only  sense  in  which  she 
could  conceive  of  a  man — as  a  husband  and  a  father. 
It  was  this  that  went  to  her  heart,  though  her  piety 
proclaimed  to  her  also  the  peril  of  his  soul;  for  she 
shared  the  High  Church  view  of  the  indissolubility 
of  marriage. 

As  to  Barbara,  she  stood  by  the  hearth,  leaning 
her  white  shoulders  against  the  carved  marble,  her 
hands  behind  her,  looking  down.  Now  and  then 
her  lips  curled,  her  level  brows  twitched,  a  faint  sigh 
came  from  her;  then  a  little  smile  would  break  out, 
and  be  instantly  suppressed.  She  alone  was  silent 
-Youth  criticizing  Life;  her  judgment  voiced  itself 
only  in  the  untroubled  rise  and  fall  of  her  young 


76  THE  PATRICIAN 

bosom,  the  impatience  of  her  brows,  the  downward 
look  of  her  blue  eyes,  full  of  a  lazy,  inextinguishable 
light. 

Lady  Valleys  sighed. 

"If  only  he  weren't  such  a  queer  boy!  He's  quite 
capable  of  marrying  her  from  sheer  perversity." 

"What!"  said  Lady  Casterley. 

"You  haven't  seen  her,  my  dear.  A  most  unfor- 
tunately attractive  creature — quite  a  charming  face." 

Agatha  said  quietly: 

"  Mother,  if  she  was  divorced,  I  don't  think  Eustace 
would." 

"There's  that,  certainly,"  murmured  Lady  Valleys; 
"hope  for  the  best!" 

"Don't  you  even  know  which  way  it  was?"  said 
Lady  Casterley. 

"Well,  the  vicar  says  she  did  the  divorcing.  But 
he's  very  charitable;  it  may  be  as  Agatha  hopes." 

"I  detest  vagueness.  Why  doesn't  someone  ask 
the  woman?" 

"You  shall  come  with  me,  Granny  dear,  and  ask 
nei  yourself;  you  will  do  it  so  nicely." 

Lady  Casterley  looked  up. 

"We  shall  see,"  she  said.  Something  struggled 
with  the  autocratic  criticism  in  her  eyes.  No  more 
than  the  rest  of  the  world  could  she  help  indulging 
Barbara.  As  one  who  believed  in  the  divinity  of 
her  order,  she  liked  this  splendid  child.  She  even 
admired — though  admiration  was  not  what  she  ex- 
celled in — that  warm  joy  in  life,  as  of  some  great 
nymph,  parting  the  waves  with  bare  limbs,  tossing 


THE  PATRICIAN  77 

from  her  the  foam  of  breakers.  She  felt  that  in 
this  granddaughter,  rather  than  in  the  good  Agatha, 
the  patrician  spirit  was  housed.  There  were  points 
to  Agatha,  earnestness  and  high  principle;  but  some- 
thing morally  narrow  and  over-Anglican  slightly 
offended  the  practical,  this- worldly  temper  of  Lady 
Casterley.  It  was  a  weakness,  and  she  disliked 
weakness.  Barbara  would  never  be  squeamish  over 
moral  questions  or  matters  such  as  were  not  really 
essential  to  aristocracy.  She  might,  indeed,  err  too 
much  the  other  way  from  sheer  high  spirits.  As  the 
impudent  child  had  said:  "If  people  had  no  pasts, 
they  would  have  no  futures."  And  Lady  Casterley 
could  not  bear  people  without  futures.  She  was 
ambitious;  not  with  the  low  ambition  of  one  who 
had  risen  from  nothing,  but  with  the  high  passion  of 
one  on  the  top,  who  meant  to  stay  there. 

"And  where  have  you  been  meeting  this — er — 
anonymous  creature?"  she  asked. 

Barbara  came  from  the  hearth,  and  bending  down 
beside  Lady  Casterley's  chair,  seemed  to  envelop 
her  completely. 

"I'm  all  right,  Granny;  she  couldn't  corrupt  me." 
Lady  Casterley's  face  peered  out  doubtfully  from 
that  warmth,  wearing  a  look  of  disapproving  pleas- 
ure. 

"I  know  your  wiles!"  she  said.     "Come,  now!" 
"I  see  her  about.    She's  nice  to  look  at.    We 
talk." 

Again  with  that  hurried  quietness  Agatha  said: 
"My  dear  Babs,  I  do  think  you  ought  to  wait." 


78  THE  PATRICIAN 

'My  dear  Angel,  why?  What  is  it  to  me  if  she's 
had  four  husbands?" 

Agatha  bit  her  lips,  and  Lady  Valleys  murmured 
with  a  laugh: 

"You  really  are  a  terror,  Babs." 

But  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Winlow's  music  had  ceased 
— the  men  had  come  in.  And  the  faces  of  the  four 
women  hardened,  as  if  they  had  slipped  on  masks; 
for  though  this  was  almost  or  quite  a  family  party, 
the  Winlows  being  second  cousins,  still  the  subject 
was  one  which  each  of  these  four  in  their  very  dif- 
ferent ways  felt  to  be  beyond  general  discussion. 
Talk,  now,  began  glancing  from  the  war  scare — 
Winlow  had  it  very  specially  that  this  would  be  over 
in  a  week — to  Brabrook's  speech,  in  progress  at  that 
very  moment,  of  which  Harbinger  provided  an  imita- 
tion. It  sped  to  Winlow's  flight — to  Andrew  Grant's 
articles  in  the  Parthenon — to  the  caricature  of  Har- 
binger in  the  Cackler,  inscribed  'The  New  Tory. 
L-rd  H-rb-ng-r  brings  Social  Reform  beneath  the 
notice  of  his  friends,'  which  depicted  him  introdu- 
cing a  naked  baby  to  a  number  of  coroneted  old 
ladies.  Thence  to  a  dancer.  Thence  to  the  Bill 
for  Universal  Assurance.  Then  back  to  the  war 
scare;  to  the  last  book  of  a  great  French  writer;  and 
once  more  to  Winlow's  flight.  It  was  all  straight- 
forward and  outspoken,  each  seeming  to  say  exactly 
what  came  into  the  head.  For  all  that,  there  was 
a  curious  avoidance  of  the  spiritual  significances  of 
these  things;  or  was  it  perhaps  that  such  significances 
were  not  seen? 


THE  PATRICIAN  79 

Lord  Dennis,  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  studying 
a  portfolio  of  engravings,  felt  a  touch  on  his  cheek; 
and  conscious  of  a  certain  fragrance,  said  without 
turning  his  head: 

"Nice  things,  these,  Babs!" 

Receiving  no  answer  he  looked  up. 

There  indeed  stood  Barbara. 

"I  do  hate  sneering  behind  people's  backs!" 

There  had  always  been  good  comradeship  between 
these  two,  since  the  days  when  Barbara,  a  golden- 
haired  child,  astride  of  a  grey  pony,  had  been  his 
morning  companion  in  the  Row  all  through  the 
season.  His  riding  days  were  past;  he  had  now  no 
outdoor  pursuit  save  fishing,  which  he  followed  with 
the  ironic  persistence  of  a  self-contained,  high-spir- 
ited nature,  which  refuses  to  admit  that  the  myste- 
rious finger  of  old  age  is  laid  across  it.  But  though 
she  was  no  longer  his  companion,  he  still  had  a  habit 
of  expecting  her  confidences;  and  he  looked  after 
her,  moving  away  from  him  to  a  window,  with  sur- 
prised concern. 

It  was  one  of  those  nights,  dark  yet  gleaming, 
when  there  seems  a  flying  malice  in  the  heavens; 
when  the  stars,  from  under  and  above  the  black 
clouds,  are  like  eyes  frowning  and  flashing  down  at 
men  with  purposed  malevolence.  The  great  sighing 
trees  even  had  caught  this  spirit,  save  one,  a  dark, 
spire-like  cypress,  planted  three  hundred  and  fifty 
years  before,  whose  tall  form  incarnated  the  very 
spirit  of  tradition,  and  neither  swayed  nor  soughed 
like  the  others.  From  her,  too  close-fibred,  too  re- 


So  THE  PATRICIAN 

sisting,  to  admit  the  breath  of  Nature,  only  a  dry 
rustle  came.  Still  almost  exotic,  in  spite  of  her  cen- 
turies of  sojourn,  and  now  brought  to  life  by  the  eyes 
of  night,  she  seemed  almost  terrifying,  in  her  narrow, 
spear-like  austerity,  as  though  something  had  dried 
and  died  within  her  soul.  Barbara  came  back  from 
the  window. 

"We  can't  do  anything  in  our  lives,  it  seems  to 
me,"  she  said,  "but  play  at  taking  risks!" 

Lord  Dennis  replied  dryly: 

"I  don't  think  I  understand,  my  dear." 

"Look  at  Mr.  Courtier!"  muttered  Barbara. 
"His  life's  so  much  more  risky  altogether  than  any 
of  our  men  folk  lead.  And  yet  they  sneer  at  him." 

"Let's  see,  what  has  he  done?" 

"Oh!  I  dare  say  not  very  much;  but  it's  all  neck 
or  nothing.  But  what  does  anything  matter  to 
Harbinger,  for  instance?  If  his  Social  Reform 
comes  to  nothing,  he'll  still  be  Harbinger,  with  fifty 
thousand  a  year." 

Lord  Dennis  looked  up  a  little  queerly. 

"What!  Is  it  possible  you  don't  take  the  young 
man  seriously,  Babs?" 

Barbara  shrugged;  a  strap  slipped  a  little  off  one 
white  shoulder. 

"It's  all  play  really;  and  he  knows  it — you  can 
tell  that  from  his  voice.  He  can't  help  its  not  mat- 
tering, of  course,  and  he  knows  that  too." 

"I  have  heard  that  he's  after  you,  Babs;  is  that 
true?" 

"He  hasn't  caught  me  yet." 


THE  PATRICIAN  81 

"Will  he?" 

Barbara's  answer  was  another  shrug;  and,  for 
all  their  statuesque  beauty,  the  movement  of  her 
shoulders  was  like  the  shrug  of  a  little  girl  in  her 
pinafore. 

"And  this  Mr.  Courtier,"  said  Lord  Dennis 
dryly:  "Are  you  after  him?" 

"I'm  after  everything;  didn't  you  know  that, 
dear?" 

"In  reason,  my  child." 

"In  reason,  of  course — like  poor  Eusty!"  She 
stopped.  Harbinger  himself  was  standing  there 
close  by,  with  an  air  as  nearly  approaching  reverence 
as  was  ever  to  be  seen  on  him.  In  truth,  the  way  in 
which  he  was  looking  at  her  was  almost  timorous. 

"Will  you  sing  that  song  I  like  so  much,  Lady 
Babs?"  ' 

They  moved  away  together;  and  Lord  Dennis, 
gazing  after  that  magnificent  young  couple,  stroked 
his  beard  gravely. 


CHAPTER  X 

MILTOUN'S  sudden  journey  to  London  had  been 
undertaken  in  pursuance  of  a  resolve  slowly  forming 
from  the  moment  he  met  Mrs.  Noel  in  the  stone- 
flagged  passage  of  Burracombe  Farm.  If  she  would 
have  him — and  since  last  evening  he  believed  she 
would — he  intended  to  marry  her. 

It  has  been  said  that  except  for  one  lapse  his  life 
had  been  austere,  but  this  is  not  to  assert  that  he  had 
no  capacity  for  passion.  The  contrary  was  the  case. 
That  flame  which  had  been  so  jealously  guarded 
smouldered  deep  within  him — a  smothered  fire  with 
but  little  air  to  feed  on.  The  moment  his  spirit  was 
touched  by  the  spirit  of  this  woman,  it  had  flared  up. 
She  was  the  incarnation  of  all  that  he  desired.  Her 
hair,  her  eyes,  her  form;  the  tiny  tuck  or  dimple  at 
the  corner  of  her  mouth  just  where  a  child  places  its 
finger;  her  way  of  moving,  a  sort  of  unconscious 
swaying  or  yielding  to  the  air;  the  tone  in  her  voice, 
which  seemed  to  come  not  so  much  from  happiness 
of  her  own  as  from  an  innate  wish  to  make  others 
happy;  and  that  natural,  if  not  robust,  intelligence, 
which  belongs  to  the  very  sympathetic,  and  is  rarely 
found  in  women  of  great  ambitions  or  enthusiasms 
— all  these  things  had  twined  themselves  round  his 
heart.  He  not  only  dreamed  of  her,  and  wanted 

8a 


THE  PATRICIAN  83 

her;  he  believed  in  her.  She  filled  his  thoughts  as 
one  who  could  never  do  wrong;  as  one  who,  though 
a  wife  would  remain  a  mistress,  and  though  a  mis- 
tress, would  always  be  the  companion  of  his  spirit. 

It  has  been  said  that  no  one  spoke  or  gossipped 
about  women  in  Miltoun's  presence,  and  the  tale  of 
her  divorce  was  present  to  his  mind  simply  in  the 
form  of  a  conviction  that  she  was  an  injured  woman. 
After  his  interview  with  the  vicar,  he  had  only  once 
again  alluded  to  it,  and  that  in  answer  to  the  speech 
of  a  lady  staying  at  the  Court:  "Oh!  yes,  I  remem- 
ber her  case  perfectly.  She  was  the  poor  woman 

who "  "Did  not,  I  am  certain,  Lady  Boning- 

ton."  The  tone  of  his  voice  had  made  someone 
laugh  uneasily;  the  subject  was  changed. 

All  divorce  was  against  his  convictions,  but  in  a 
blurred  way  he  admitted  that  there  were  cases  where 
release  was  unavoidable.  He  was  not  a  man  to  ask 
for  confidences,  or  expect  them  to  be  given  him. 
He  himself  had  never  confided  his  spiritual  struggles 
to  any  living  creature;  and  the  unspiritual  struggle 
had  little  interest  for  Miltoun.  He  was  ready  at  any 
moment  to  stake  his  life  on  the  perfection  of  the  idol 
he  had  set  up  within  his  soul,  as  simply  and  straight- 
forwardly as  he  would  have  placed  his  body  in  front 
of  her  to  shield  her  from  harm. 

The  same  fanaticism,  which  looked  on  his  passion 
as  a  flower  by  itself,  entirely  apart  from  its  suitability 
to  the  social  garden,  was  also  the  driving  force  which 
sent  him  up  to  London  to  declare  his  intention  to 
his  father  before  he  spoke  to  Mrs.  Noel.  The  thing 


84  THE  PATRICIAN 

should  be  done  simply,  and  in  right  order.  For  he 
had  the  kind  of  moral  courage  found  in  those  who 
live  retired  within  the  shell  of  their  own  aspirations. 
Yet  it  was  not  perhaps  so  much  active  moral  courage 
as  indifference  to  what  others  thought  or  did,  coming 
from  his  inbred  resistance  to  the  appreciation  of  what 
they  felt. 

That  peculiar  smile  of  the  old  Tudor  Cardinal — 
which  had  in  it  invincible  self-reliance,  and  a  sort  of 
spiritual  sneer — played  over  his  face  when  he  specu- 
lated on  his  father's  reception  of  the  coming  news; 
and  very  soon  he  ceased  to  think  of  it  at  all,  bury- 
ing himself  in  the  work  he  had  brought  with  him  for 
the  journey.  For  he  had  in  high  degree  the  faculty, 
so  essential  to  public  life,  of  switching  off  his  whole 
attention  from  one  subject  to  another. 

On  arriving  at  Paddington  he  drove  straight  to 
Valleys  House. 

This  large  dwelling  with  its  pillared  portico,  seemed 
to  wear  an  air  of  faint  surprise  that,  at  the  height  of 
the  season,  it  was  not  more  inhabited.  Three  ser- 
vants relieved  Miltoun  of  his  little  luggage;  and 
having  washed,  and  learned  that  his  father  would 
be  dining  in,  he  went  for  a  walk,  taking  his  way 
towards  his  rooms  in  the  Temple.  His  long  figure, 
somewhat  carelessly  garbed,  attracted  the  usual  at- 
tention, of  which  he  was  as  usual  unaware.  Strol- 
ling along,  he  meditated  deeply  on  a  London,  an 
England,  different  from  this  flatulent  hurly-burly, 
this  omnium  gatherum,  this  great  discordant  sym- 
phony of  sharps  and  flats.  A  London,  an  England, 


THE  PATRICIAN  85 

kempt  and  self-respecting;  swept  and  garnished  of 
slums,  and  plutocrats,  advertisement,  and  jerry- 
building,  of  sensationalism,  vulgarity,  vice,  and  un- 
employment. An  England  where  each  man  should 
know  his  place,  and  never  change  it,  but  serve  in  it 
loyally  in  his  own  caste.  Where  every  man,  from 
nobleman  to  labourer,  should  be  an  oligarch  by 
faith,  and  a  gentleman  by  practice.  An  England  so 
steel-bright  and  efficient  that  the  very  sight  should 
suffice  to  impose  peace.  An  England  whose  soul 
should  be  stoical  and  fine  with  the  stoicism  and  fine- 
ness of  each  soul  amongst  her  many  million  souls; 
where  the  town  should  have  its  creed  and  the  coun- 
try its  creed,  and  there  should  be  contentment  and 
no  complaining  in  her  streets. 

And  as  he  walked  down  the  Strand,  a  little  ragged 
boy  cheeped  out  between  his  legs: 

"Bloodee  discoveree  in  a  Bank — Grite  sensytion! 
Pi— er!" 

Miltoun  paid  no  heed  to  that  saying;  yet,  with  it, 
the  wind  that  blows  where  man  lives,  the  careless, 
wonderful,  unordered  wind,  had  dispersed  his  au- 
stere and  formal  vision.  Great  was  that  wind — the 
myriad  aspiration  of  men  and  women,  the  praying 
of  the  uncounted  multitude  to  the  goddess  of  Sen 
sation — of  Chance,  and  Change.  A  flowing  from 
heart  to  heart,  from  lip  to  lip,  as  in  Spring  the  wist- 
ful air  wanders  through  a  wood,  imparting  to  every 
bush  and  tree  the  secrets  of  fresh  life,  the  passionate 
resolve  to  grow,  and  become — no  matter  what!  A 
sighing,  as  eternal  as  the  old  murmuring  of  the  sea, 


86  THE  PATRICIAN 

as  little  to  be  hushed,  as  prone  to  swell  into  sudden 
roaring! 

Miltoun  held  on  through  the  traffic,  not  looking 
overmuch  at  the  present  forms  of  the  thousands  he 
passed,  but  seeing  with  the  eyes  of  faith  the  forms  he 
desired  to  see.  Near  St.  Paul's  he  stopped  in  front 
of  an  old  book-shop.  His  grave,  pallid,  not  un- 
handsome face,  was  well-known  to  William  Rimall, 
its  small  proprietor,  *  who  at  once  brought  out  his 
latest  acquisition — a  More's  'Utopia.'  That  par- 
ticular edition  (he  assured  Miltoun)  was  quite  un- 
procurable— he  had  never  sold  but  one  other  copy, 
which  had  been  literally  crumbling  away.  This 
copy  was  in  even  better  condition.  It  could  hardly 
last  another  twenty  years — a  genuine  book,  a  bar- 
gain. There  wasn't  so  much  movement  in  More  as 
there  had  been  a  little  time  back. 

Miltoun  opened  the  tome,  and  a  small  book-louse 
who  had  been  sleeping  on  the  word  'Tranibore,' 
began  to  make  its  way  slowly  towards  the  very 
centre  of  the  volume. 

"I  see  it's  genuine,"  said  Miltoun. 

"It's  not  to  read,  my  lord,"  the  little  man  warned 
him:  "Hardly  safe  to  turn  the  pages.  As  I  was 
saying — I've  not  had  a  better  piece  this  year.  I 
haven't  really!" 

"Shrewd  old  dreamer,"  muttered  Miltoun;  "the 
Socialists  haven't  got  beyond  him,  even  now." 

The  little  man's  eyes  blinked,  as  though  apolo- 
gizing for  the  views  of  Thomas  More. 

"Well,"  he  said,   "I   suppose   he  was  one   of 


THE  PATRICIAN  87 

them.  I  forget  if  your  lordship's  very  strong  on 
politics?" 

Miltoun  smiled. 

"I  want  to  see  an  England,  Rimall,  something  like 
the  England  of  More's  dream.  But  my  machinery 
will  be  different.  I  shall  begin  at  the  top." 

The  little  man  nodded. 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,"  he  said;  "we  shall  come  to 
that,  I  dare  say." 

"  We  must,  Rimall."  And  Miltoun  turned  the  page. 

The  little  man's  face  quivered. 

"I  don't  think,"  he  said,  "that  book's  quite  strong 
enough  for  you,  my  lord,  with  your  taste  for  reading. 
Now  I've  a  most  curious  old  volume  here — on  Chi- 
nese temples.  It's  rare — but  not  too  old.  You  can 
peruse  it  thoroughly.  It's  what  I  call  a  book  to 
browse  on — just  suit  your  palate.  Funny  principle 
they  built  those  things  on,"  he  added,  opening  the 
volume  at  an  engraving,  "in  layers.  We  don't  build 
like  that  in  England." 

Miltoun  looked  up  sharply;  the  little  man's  face 
wore  no  signs  of  understanding. 

"Unfortunately  we  don't,  Rimall,"  he  said;  "we 
ought  to,  and  we  shall.  I'll  take  this  book." 

Placing  his  finger  on  the  print  of  the  pagoda,  he 
added:  "A  good  symbol." 

The  little  bookseller's  eye  strayed  down  the  temple 
to  the  secret  price  mark. 

"Exactly,  my  lord,"  he  said;  "I  thought  it'd  be 
your  fancy.  The  price  to  you  will  be  twenty-seven 
and  six." 


88  THE  PATRICIAN 

Miltoun,  pocketing  the  bargain,  walked  out.  He 
made  his  way  into  the  Temple,  left  the  book  at  his 
Chambers,  and  passed  on  down  to  the  bank  of 
Mother  Thames.  The  Sun  was  loving  her  passion- 
ately that  afternoon;  he  had  kissed  her  into  warmth 
and  light  and  colour.  And  all  the  buildings  along 
her  banks,  as  far  as  the  towers  at  Westminster, 
seemed  to  be  smiling.  It  was  a  great  sight  for  the 
eyes  of  a  lover.  And  another  vision  came  haunting 
Miltoun,  of  a  soft-eyed  woman  with  a  low  voice, 
bending  amongst  her  flowers.  Nothing  would  be 
complete  without  her;  no  work  bear  fruit;  no 
scheme  could  have  full  meaning. 

Lord  Valleys  greeted  his  son  at  dinner  with  good- 
fellowship  and  a  faint  surprise. 

"Day  off,  my  dear  fellow?  Or  have  you  come  up 
to  hear  Brabrook  pitch  into  us?  He's  rather  late 
this  time — we've  got  rid  of  that  balloon  business — 
no  trouble  after  all." 

And  he  eyed  Miltoun  with  that  clear  grey  stare  of 
his,  so  cool,  level,  and  curious.  Now,  what  sort  of 
bird  is  this?  it  seemed  saying.  Certainly  not  the 
partridge  I  should  have  expected  from  its  breeding! 

Miltoun's  answer:  "I  came  up  to  tell  you  some- 
thing, sir,"  riveted  his  father's  stare  for  a  second 
longer  than  was  quite  urbane. 

It  would  not  be  true  to  say  that  Lord  Valleys  was 
afraid  of  his  son.  Fear  was  not  one  of  his  emotions, 
but  he  certainly  regarded  him  with  a  respectful 
curiosity  that  bordered  on  uneasiness.  The  oligar- 
chic temper  of  Miltoun's  mind  and  political  convic- 


THE  PATRICIAN  89 

dons  almost  shocked  one  who  knew  both  by  tempera- 
ment and  experience  how  to  wait  in  front.  This 
instruction  he  had  frequently  had  occasion  to  give 
his  jockeys  when  he  believed  his  horses  could  best 
get  home  first  in  that  way.  And  it  was  an  instruc- 
tion he  now  longed  to  give  his  son.  He  himself  had 
'waited  in  front'  for  over  fifty  years,  and  he  knew  it 
to  be  the  finest  way  of  insuring  that  he  would  never 
be  compelled  to  alter  this  desirable  policy — for  some- 
thing in  Lord  Valleys'  character  made  him  fear, 
that,  in  real  emergency,  he  would  exert  himself  to 
the  point  of  the  gravest  discomfort  sooner  than  be 
left  to  wait  behind.  A  fellow  like  young  Harbinger, 
of  course,  he  understood — versatile,  'full  of  beans,' 
as  he  expressed  it  to  himself  in  his  more  confidential 
moments,  who  had  imbibed  the  new  wine  (very  in- 
toxicating it  was)  of  desire  for  social  reform.  He 
would  have  to  be  given  his  head  a  little — but  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  with  him,  he  would  never  '  run 
out' — light  handy  build  of  horse  that  only  required 
steadying  at  the  corners.  He  would  want  to  hear 
himself  talk,  and  be  let  feel  that  he  was  doing  some- 
thing. All  very  well,  and  quite  intelligible.  But 
with  Miltoun  (and  Lord  Valleys  felt  this  to  be  no 
mere  parental  fancy)  it  was  a  very  different  business. 
His  son  had  a  way  of  forcing  things  to  their  conclu- 
sions which  was  dangerous,  and  reminded  him  of 
his  mother-in-law.  He  was  a  baby  in  public  affairs, 
of  course,  as  yet;  but  as  soon  as  he  once  got  going, 
the  intensity  of  his  convictions,  together  with  his 
position,  and  real  gift — not  of  the  gab,  like  Har- 


90  THE  PATRICIAN 

binger's — but  of  restrained,  biting  oratory,  was  sure 
to  bring  him  to  the  front  with  a  bound  in  the  present 
state  of  parties.  And  what  were  those  convictions? 
Lord  Valleys  had  tried  to  understand  them,  but  up 
to  the  present  he  had  failed.  And  this  did  not  sur- 
prise him  exactly,  since,  as  he  often  said,  political 
convictions  were  not,  as  they  appeared  on  the  sur- 
face, the  outcome  of  reason,  but  merely  symptoms 
of  temperament.  And  he  could  not  comprehend, 
because  he  could  not  sympathize  with,  any  attitude 
towards  public  affairs  that  was  not  essentially  level, 
attached  to  the  plain,  common-sense  factors  of  the 
case  as  they  appeared  to  himself.  Not  that  he  could 
fairly  be  called  a  temporizer,  for  deep  down  in  him 
there  was  undoubtedly  a  vein  of  obstinate,  funda- 
mental loyalty  to  the  traditions  of  a  caste  which 
prized  high  spirit  beyond  all  things.  Still  he  did 
feel  that  Miltoun  was  altogether  too  much  the f  pukka f 
aristocrat — no  better  than  a  Socialist,  with  his  con- 
founded way  of  seeing  things  all  cut  and  dried;  his 
ideas  of  forcing  reforms  down  people's  throats  and 
holding  them  there  with  the  iron  hand!  With  his 
way  too  of  acting  on  his  principles !  Why !  He  even 
admitted  that  he  acted  on  his  principles!  This 
thought  always  struck  a  very  discordant  note  in 
Lord  Valleys'  breast.  It  was  almost  indecent; 
worse — ridiculous!  The  fact  was,  the  dear  fellow 
had  unfortunately  a  deeper  habit  of  thought  than 
was  wanted  in  politics— dangerous — very!  Experi- 
ence might  do  something  for  him!  And  out  of  his 
own  long  experience  the  Earl  of  Valleys  tried  hard 


THE  PATRICIAN  91 

to  recollect  any  politician  whom  the  practice  of  poli- 
tics had  left  where  he  was  when  he  started.  He 
could  not  think  of  one.  But  this  gave  him  little 
comfort;  and,  above  a  piece  of  late  asparagus  his 
steady  eyes  sought  his  son's.  What  had  he  come  up 
to  tell  him? 

The  phrase  had  been  ominous ;  he  could  not  recol- 
lect Miltoun's  ever  having  told  him  anything.  For 
though  a  really  kind  and  indulgent  father,  he  had — 
like  so  many  men  occupied  with  public  and  other 
lives — a  little  acquired  towards  his  offspring  the  look 
and  manner:  Is  this  mine?  Of  his  four  children, 
Barbara  alone  he  claimed  with  conviction.  He  ad- 
mired her;  and,  being  a  man  who  savoured  life,  he 
was  unable  to  love  much  except  where  he  admired. 
But,  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  hustle  any  man 
or  force  a  confidence,  he  waited  to  hear  his  son's 
news,  betraying  no  uneasiness. 

Miltoun  seemed  in  no  hurry.  He  described  Cour- 
tier's adventure,  which  tickled  Lord  Valleys  a  good 
deal. 

"Ordeal  by  red  pepper!  Shouldn't  have  thought 
them  equal  to  that,"  he  said.  "So  you've  got  him 
at  Monkland  now.  Harbinger  still  with  you?" 

"Yes.    I  don't  think  Harbinger  has  much  stamina. 

"Politically?" 

Miltoun  nodded. 

"I  rather  resent  his  being  on  our  side — I  don't 
think  he  does  us  any  good.  You've  seen  that  car- 
toon, I  suppose;  it  cuts  pretty  deep.  I  couldn't 
recognize  you  amongst  the  old  women,  sir." 


92  THE  PATRICIAN 

Lord  Valleys  smiled  impersonally. 

"Very  clever  thing.  By  the  way;  I  shall  win  the 
Eclipse,  I  think." 

And  thus,  spasmodically,  the  conversation  ran  till 
the  last  servant  had  left  the  room. 

Then  Miltoun,  without  preparation,  looked  straight 
at  his  father  and  said: 

"I  want  to  marry  Mrs.  Noel,  sir." 

Lord  Valleys  received  the  shot  with  exactly  the 
same  expression  as  that  with  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  watch  his  horses  beaten.  Then  he  raised 
his  wineglass  to  his  lips;  and  set  it  down  again  un- 
touched. This  was  the  only  sign  he  gave  of  interest 
or  discomfiture. 

"Isn't  this  rather  sudden?" 

Miltoun  answered:  "I've  wanted  to  from  the 
moment  I  first  saw  her." 

Lord  Valleys,  almost  as  good  a  judge  of  a  man  and 
a  situation  as  of  a  horse  or  a  pointer  dog,  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  and  said  with  faint  sarcasm: 

"My  dear  fellow,  it's  good  of  you  to  have  told  me 
this;  though,  to  be  quite  frank,  it's  a  piece  of  news  I 
would  rather  not  have  heard." 

A  dusky  flush  burned  slowly  up  in  Miltoun's 
cheeks.  He  had  underrated  his  father;  the  man 
had  coolness  and  courage  in  a  crisis. 

"What  is  your  objection,  sir?"  And  suddenly 
he  noticed  that  a  wafer  in  Lord  Valleys'  hand  was 
quivering.  This  brought  into  his  eyes  no  look  of 
compunction,  but  such  a  smouldering  gaze  as  the 
old  Tudor  Churchman  might  have  bent  on  an  ad- 


THE  PATRICIAN  93 

versary  who  showed  a  sign  of  weakness.  Lord 
Valleys,  too,  noticed  the  quivering  of  that  wafer, 
and  ate  it. 

"We  are  men  of  the  world,"  he  said. 

Miltoun  answered:  "I  am  not." 

Showing  his  first  real  symptom  of  impatience 
Lord  Valleys  rapped  out: 

"So  be  it!    I  am." 

"Yes?"  said  Miltoun. 

"Eustace!" 

Nursing  one  knee,  Miltoun  faced  that  appeal  with- 
out the  faintest  movement.  His  eyes  continued  to 
burn  into  his  father's  face.  A  tremor  passed  over 
Lord  Valleys'  heart.  What  intensity  of  feeling  there 
was  in  the  fellow,  that  he  could  look  like  this  at  the 
first  breath  of  opposition! 

He  reached  out  and  took  up  the  cigar-box;  held 
it  absently  towards  his  son,  and  drew  it  quickly  back. 

"I  forgot,"  he  said;  "you  don't." 

And  lighting  a  cigar,  he  smoked  gravely,  looking 
straight  before  him,  a  furrow  between  his  brows. 
He  spoke  at  last: 

"She  looks  like  a  lady.  I  know  nothing  else  about 
her." 

The  smile  deepened  round  Miltoun's  mouth. 

"Why  should  you  want  to  know  anything  else?" 

Lord  Valleys  shrugged.  His  philosophy  had 
hardened. 

"I  understand  for  one  thing,"  he  said  coldly, 
"that  there  is  a  matter  of  a  divorce.  I  thought  you 
took  the  Church's  view  on  that  subject." 


94  THE  PATRICIAN 

"She  has  not  done  wrong." 

"You  know  her  story,  then?" 

"No." 

Lord  Valleys  raised  his  brows,  in  irony  and  a  sort 
of  admiration. 

"Chivalry  the  better  part  of  discretion?" 

Miltoun  answered: 

"You  don't,  I  think,  understand  the  kind  of  feel- 
ing I  have  for  Mrs.  Noel.  It  does  not  come  into 
your  scheme  of  things.  It  is  the  only  feeling,  how- 
ever, with  which  I  should  care  to  marry,  and  I  am 
not  likely  to  feel  it  for  anyone  again." 

Lord  Valleys  felt  once  more  that  uncanny  sense  of 
insecurity.  Was  this  true?  And  suddenly  he  felt: 
Yes,  it  is  true !  The  face  before  him  was  the  face  of 
one  who  would  burn  in  his  own  fire  sooner  than  de- 
part from  his  standards.  And  a  sudden  sense  of  the 
utter  seriousness  of  this  dilemma  dumbed  him. 

"I  can  say  no  more  at  the  moment,"  he  muttered, 
and  got  up  from  the  table. 


CHAPTER  XI 

LADY  CASTERLEY  was  that  inconvenient  thing— 
an  early  riser.  No  woman  in  the  kingdom  was  a 
better  judge  of  a  dew  carpet.  Nature  had  in  her 
time  displayed  before  her  thousands  of  those  pretty 
fabrics,  where  all  the  stars  of  the  past  night,  dropped 
to  the  dark  earth,  were  waiting  to  glide  up  to  heaven 
again  on  the  rays  of  the  sun.  At  Ravensham  she 
walked  regularly  in  her  gardens  between  half-past 
seven  and  eight,  and  when  she  paid  a  visit,  was  care- 
ful to  subordinate  whatever  might  be  the  local  cus- 
tom to  this  habit. 

When  therefore  her  maid  Randle  came  to  Bar- 
bara's maid  at  seven  o'clock,  and  said:  "My  old 
lady  wants  Lady  Babs  to  get  up,"  there  was  no  par- 
ticular pain  in  the  breast  of  Barbara's  maid,  who 
was  doing  up  her  corsets.  She  merely  answered: 
"I'll  see  to  it.  Lady  Babs  won't  be  too  pleased!" 
And  ten  minutes  later  she  entered  that  white-walled 
room  which  smelled  of  pinks — a  temple  of  drowsy 
sweetness,  where  the  summer  light  was  vaguely  steal- 
ing through  flowered  chintz  curtains. 

Barbara  was  sleeping  with  her  cheek  on  her  hand, 
and  her  tawny  hair,  gathered  back,  streaming  over 
the  pillow.  Her  lips  were  parted;  and  the  maid 
thought:  "I'd  like  to  have  hair  and  a  mouth  lik« 

95 


96  THE  PATRICIAN 

that!"  She  could  not  help  smiling  to  herself  with 
pleasure;  Lady  Babs  looked  so  pretty — prettier 
asleep  even  than  awake !  And  at  sight  of  that  beau- 
tiful creature,  sleeping  and  smiling  in  her  sleep,  the 
earthy,  hothouse  fumes  steeping  the  mind  of  one  per- 
petually serving  in  an  atmosphere  unsuited  to  her 
natural  growth,  dispersed.  Beauty,  with  its  queer 
touching  power  of  freeing  the  spirit  from  all  barriers 
and  thoughts  of  self,  sweetened  the  maid's  eyes,  and 
kept  her  standing,  holding  her  breath.  For  Barbara 
asleep  was  a  symbol  of  that  Golden  Age  in  which  she 
so  desperately  believed.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and 
seeing  the  maid,  said: 

"Is  it  eight  o'clock,  Stacey?" 

"No,  but  Lady  Casterley  wants  you  to  walk  with 
her." 

"Oh!  bother!    I  was  having  such  a  dream!" 

"Yes;  you  were  smiling." 

"I  was  dreaming  that  I  could  fly." 

"Fancy!" 

"I  could  see  everything  spread  out  below  me,  as 
close  as  I  see  you;  I  was  hovering  like  a  buzzard 
hawk.  I  felt  that  I  could  come  down  exactly  where 
I  wanted.  It  was  fascinating.  I  had  perfect  power, 
Stacey." 

And  throwing  her  neck  back,  she  closed  her  eyes 
again.  The  sunlight  streamed  in  on  her  between 
the  half -drawn  curtains. 

The  queerest  impulse  to  put  out  a  hand  and 
stroke  that  full  white  throat  shot  through  the  maid's 
mind. 


THE  PATRICIAN  97 

"These  flying  machines  are  stupid,"  murmured 
Barbara;  "the  pleasure's  in  one's  body — wings!" 

"I  can  see  Lady  Casterley  in  the  garden." 

Barbara  sprang  out  of  bed.  Close  by  the  statue 
of  Diana  Lady  Casterley  was  standing,  gazing  down 
at  some  flowers,  a  tiny,  grey  figure.  Barbara  sighed. 
With  her,  in  her  dream,  had  been  another  buzzard 
hawk,  and  she  was  filled  with  a  sort  of  surprise,  and 
queer  pleasure  that  ran  down  her  in  little  shivers 
while  she  bathed  and  dressed. 

In  her  haste  she  took  no  hat;  and  still  busy  with 
the  fastening  of  her  linen  frock,  hurried  down  the 
stairs  and  Georgian  corridor,  towards  the  garden. 
At  the  end  of  it  she  almost  ran  into  the  arms  of 
Courtier. 

Awakening  early  this  morning,  he  had  begun  first 
thinking  of  Audrey  Noel,  threatened  by  scandal; 
then  of  his  yesterday's  companion,  that  glorious 
young  creature,  whose  image  had  so  gripped  and 
taken  possession  of  him.  In  the  pleasure  of  this 
memory  he  had  steeped  himself.  She  was  youth 
itself!  That  perfect  thing,  a  young  girl  without 
callowness. 

And  his  words,  when  she  nearly  ran  into  him,  were* 
"The  Winged  Victory!" 

Barbara's  answer  was  equally  symbolic:  "A  buz- 
zard hawk!  Do  you  know,  I  dreamed  we  were  fly- 
ing, Mr.  Courtier." 

Courtier  gravely  answered: 

"If  the  gods  give  me  that  dream " 

From  the  garden  door  Barbara  turned  her  head, 
smiled,  and  passed  through. 


98  THE  PATRICIAN 

Lady  Casterley,  in  the  company  of  little  Ann,  who 
had  perceived  that  it  was  novel  to  be  in  the  garden 
at  this  hour,  had  been  scrutinizing  some  newly 
founded  colonies  of  a  flower  with  which  she  was  not 
familiar.  On  seeing  her  granddaughter  approach, 
she  said  at  once: 

"What  is  this  thing?" 

"Nemesia." 

"Never  heard  of  it." 

"It's  rather  the  fashion,  Granny." 

"Nemesia?"  repeated  Lady  Casterley.  "What 
has  Nemesis  to  do  with  flowers  ?  I  have  no  patience 
with  gardeners,  and  these  idiotic  names.  Where  is 
your  hat?  I  like  that  duck's  egg  colour  in  your 
frock.  There's  a  button  undone."  And  reaching 
up  her  little  spidery  hand,  wonderfully  steady  con- 
sidering its  age,  she  buttoned  the  top  button  but  one 
of  Barbara's  bodice. 

"You  look  very  blooming,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
"How  far  is  it  to  this  woman's  cottage?  We'll  go 
there  now." 

"She  wouldn't  be  up." 

Lady  Casterley's  eyes  gleamed  maliciously. 

"You  tell  me  she's  so  nice,"  she  said.  "No  nice 
unencumbered  woman  lies  in  bed  after  half-past 
seven.  Which  is  the  very  shortest  way  ?  No,  Ann, 
we  can't  take  you." 

Little  Ann,  after  regarding  her  great-grandmother 
rather  too  intently,  replied: 

"Well,  I  can't  come,  you  see,  because  I've  got 
to  go." 

"Very  well,"  said  Lady  Casterley,"  then  trot  along." 


THE  PATRICIAN  99 

Little  Ann,  tightening  her  lips,  walked  to  the  next 
colony  of  Nemesia,  and  bent  over  the  colonists  with 
concentration,  showing  clearly  that  she  had  found 
something  more  interesting  than  had  yet  been  en- 
countered. 

"Ha!"  said  Lady  Casterley,  and  led  on  at  her 
brisk  pace  towards  the  avenue. 

All  the  way  down  the  drive  she  discoursed  on 
woodcraft,  glancing  sharply  at  the  trees.  Forestry 
— she  said — like  building,  and  all  other  pursuits 
which  required  faith  and  patient  industry,  was  a 
lost  art  in  this  second-hand  age.  She  had  made 
Barbara's  grandfather  practise  it,  so  that  at  Catton 
(her  country  place)  and  even  at  Ravensham,  the 
trees  were  worth  looking  at.  Here,  at  Monkland, 
they  were  monstrously  neglected.  To  have  the 
finest  Italian  cypress  in  the  country,  for  example, 
and  not  take  more  care  of  it,  was  a  downright 
scandal! 

Barbara  listened,  smiling  lazily.  Granny  was  so 
amusing  in  her  energy  and  precision,  and  her  turns 
of  speech,  so  deliberately  homespun,  as  if  she — than 
whom  none  could  better  use  a  stiff  and  polished 
phrase,  or  the  refinements  of  the  French  language- 
were  determined  to  take  what  liberties  she  liked. 
To  the  girl,  haunted  still  by  the  feeling  that  she 
could  fly,  almost  drunk  on  the  sweetness  of  the  air 
that  summer  morning,  it  seemed  funny  that  anyone 
should  be  like  that.  Then  for  a  second  she  saw  her 
grandmother's  face  in  repose,  off  guard,  grim  with 
anxious  purpose,  as  if  questioning  its  hold  on  life; 


ioo  THE  PATRICIAN 

and  in  one  of  those  flashes  of  intuition  which  come 
to  women — even  when  young  and  conquering  like 
Barbara — she  felt  suddenly  sorry,  as  though  she  had 
caught  sight  of  the  pale  spectre  never  yet  seen  by 
her.  "Poor  old  dear,"  she  thought;  "what  a  pity 
to  be  old!" 

But  they  had  entered  the  footpath  crossing  three 
long  meadows  which  climbed  up  towards  Mrs.  Noel's. 
It  was  so  golden-sweet  here  amongst  the  million  tiny 
saffron  cups  frosted  with  lingering  dewshine;  there 
was  such  flying  glory  in  the  limes  and  ash-trees;  so 
delicate  a  scent  from  the  late  whins  and  may-flower; 
and  on  every  tree  a  greybird  calling — to  be  sorry  was 
not  possible! 

In  the  far  corner  of  the  first  field  a  chestnut  mare 
was  standing,  with  ears  pricked  at  some  distant 
sound  whose  charm  she  alone  perceived.  On  view- 
ing the  intruders,  she  laid  those  ears  back,  and  a 
little  vicious  star  gleamed  out  at  the  corner  of  her 
eye.  They  passed  her  and  entered  the  second  field. 
Half  way  across,  Barbara  said  quietly: 

"Granny,  that's  a  bull!" 

It  was  indeed  an  enormous  bull,  who  had  been 
standing  behind  a  clump  of  bushes.  He  was  moving 
slowly  towards  them,  still  distant  about  two  hundred 
yards;  a  great  red  beast,  with  the  huge  development 
of  neck  and  front  which  makes  the  bull,  of  all  living 
creatures,  the  symbol  of  brute  force. 

Lady  Casterley  envisaged  him  severely. 

"I  dislike  bulls,"  she  said;  "I  think  I  must  walk 
backward." 


THE  PATRICIAN  101 

"You  can't;  it's  too  uphill." 

"I  am  not  going  to  turn  back,"  said  Lady  Caster- 
ley.  "The  bull  ought  not  to  be  here.  Whose 
fault  is  it?  I  shall  speak  to  someone.  Stand  still 
and  look  at  him.  We  must  prevent  his  coming 
nearer." 

They  stood  still  and  looked  at  the  bull,  who  con- 
tinued to  approach. 

"It  doesn't  stop  him,"  said  Lady  Casterley.  "We 
must  take  no  notice.  Give  me  your  arm,  my  dear; 
my  legs  feel  rather  funny." 

Barbara  put  her  arm  round  the  little  figure.  They 
walked  on. 

"I  have  not  been  used  to  bulls  lately,"  said  Lady 
Casterley.  The  bull  came  nearer. 

"Granny,"  said  Barbara,  "you  must  go  quietly  on 
to  the  stile.  When  you're  over  I'll  come  too." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Lady  Casterley,  "we  will  go 
together.  Take  no  notice  of  him;  I  have  great 
faith  in  that." 

"Granny  darling,  you  must  do  as  I  say,  please; 
I  remember  this  bull,  he  is  one  of  ours." 

At  those  rather  ominous  words  Lady  Casterley 
gave  her  a  sharp  glance. 

"I  shall  not  go,"  she  said.  "My  legs  feel  quite 
strong  now.  We  can  run,  if  necessary." 

"So  can  the  bull,"  said  Barbara. 

"I'm  not  going  to  leave  you,"  muttered  Lady 
Casterley.  "If  he  turns  vicious  I  shall  talk  to  him. 
He  won't  touch  me.  You  can  run  faster  than  I ;  so 
that's  settled." 


102  THE  PATRICIAN 

"Don't  be  absurd,  dear,"  answered  Barbara; 
"I  am  not  afraid  of  bulls." 

Lady  Casterley  flashed  a  look  at  her  which  had  a 
gleam  of  amusement. 

"I  can  feel  you,"  she  said;  "you're  just  as  trembly 
as  I  am." 

The  bull  was  now  distant  some  eighty  yards,  and 
they  were  still  quite  a  hundred  from  the  stile. 

"Granny,"  said  Barbara,  "if  you  don't  go  on  as 
I  tell  you,  I  shall  just  leave  you,  and  go  and  meet 
him!  You  mustn't  be  obstinate!" 

Lady  Casterley's  answer  was  to  grip  her  grand- 
daughter round  the  waist;  the  nervous  force  of  that 
thin  arm  was  surprising. 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  said.  "I 
refuse  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  this  bull; 
I  shall  simply  pay  no  attention." 

The  bull  now  began  very  slowly  ambling  towards 
them. 

"Take  no  notice,"  said  Lady  Casterley,  who  was 
walking  faster  than  she  had  ever  walked  before. 

"The  ground  is  level  now,"  said  Barbara;  "can 
you  run?" 

"I  think  so,"  gasped  Lady  Casterley;  and  sud- 
denly she  found  herself  half-lifted  from  the  ground, 
and,  as  it  were,  flying  towards  the  stile.  She  heard 
a  noise  behind;  then  Barbara's  voice: 

"We  must  stop.  He's  on  us.  Get  behind 
me." 

She  felt  herself  caught  and  pinioned  by  two  arms 
that  seemed  set  on  the  wrong  way.  Instinct,  and  a 


THE  PATRICIAN  103 

general  softness  told  her  that  she  was  back  to  back 
with  her  granddaughter. 

"Let  me  go ! "  she  gasped ;  " let  me  go ! " 

And  suddenly  she  felt  herself  being  propelled  by 
that  softness  forward  towards  the  stile. 

"Shoo!"  she  said;  "shoo!" 

"  Granny,"  Barbara's  voice  came,  calm  and  breath- 
less, "don't !  You  only  excite  him !  Are  we  near  the 
stile?" 

"Ten  yards,"  panted  Lady  Casterley. 

"Look  out,  then!"  There  was  a  sort  of  warm 
flurry  round  her,  a  rush,  a  heave,  a  scramble;  she 
was  beyond  the  stile.  The  bull  and  Barbara,  a 
yard  or  two  apart,  were  just  the  other  side.  Lady 
Casterley  raised  her  handkerchief  and  fluttered  it. 
The  bull  looked  up;  Barbara,  all  legs  and  arms, 
came  slipping  down  beside  her. 

Without  wasting  a  moment  Lady  Casterley  leaned 
forward  and  addressed  the  bull: 

"You  awful  brute!"  she  said;  "I  will  have  you 
well  flogged." 

Gently  pawing  the  ground,  the  bull  snuffled. 

"Are  you  any  the  worse,  child?" 

"Not  a  scrap,"  said  Barbara's  serene,  still  breath- 
less voice. 

Lady  Casterley  put  up  her  hands,  and  took  the 
girl's  face  between  them. 

"What  legs  you  have!"  she  said.  "Give  me  a 
kiss!" 

Having  received  a  hot,  rather  quivering  kiss,  she 
walked  on,  holding  somewhat  firmly  to  Barbara's  arm. 


104  THE  PATRICIAN 

"As  for  that  bull,"  she  murmured,  "the  brute — to 
attack  women!" 

Barbara  looked  down  at  her. 

"Granny,"  she  said,  "are  you  sure  you're  not 
shaken?" 

Lady  Casterley,  whose  lips  were  quivering,  pressed 
them  together  very  hard. 

"Not  a  b-b-bit." 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Barbara,  "that  we  had 
better  go  back,  at  once — the  other  way?" 

"Certainly  not.  There  are  no  more  bulls,  I  sup- 
pose, between  us  and  this  woman?" 

"But  are  you  fit  to  see  her?" 

Lady  Casterley  passed  her  handkerchief  over  her 
lips,  to  remove  their  quivering. 

"Perfectly,"  she  answered. 

"Then,  dear,"  said  Barbara,  "stand  still  a  minute, 
while  I  dust  you  behind." 

This  having  been  accomplished,  they  proceeded 
in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Noel's  cottage. 

At  sight  of  it,  Lady  Casterley  said: 

"I  shall  put  my  foot  down.  It's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion for  a  man  of  Miltoun's  prospects.  I  look  for- 
ward to  seeing  him  Prime  Minister  some  day." 
Hearing  Barbara's  voice  murmuring  above  her,  she 
paused:  "What's  that  you  say?" 

"I  said :  What  is  the  use  of  our  being  what  we  are, 
if  we  can't  love  whom  we  like?" 

"Love!"  said  Lady  Casterley;  "I  was  talking  of 
marriage." 

"  I  am  glad  you  admit  the  distinction,  Granny  dear." 


THE  PATRICIAN  105 

"You  are  pleased  to  be  sarcastic,"  said  Lady 
Casterley.  "Listen  to  me!  It's  the  greatest  non- 
sense to  suppose  that  people  in  our  caste  are  free  to 
do  as  they  please.  The  sooner  you  realize  that,  the 
better,  Babs.  I  am  talking  to  you  seriously.  The 
preservation  of  our  position  as  a  class  depends  on 
our  observing  certain  decencies.  What  do  you 
imagine  would  happen  to  the  Royal  Family  if  they 
were  allowed  to  marry  as  they  liked  ?  All  this  marry- 
ing with  Gaiety  girls,  and  American  money,  and 
people  with  pasts,  and  writers,  and  so  forth,  is  most 
damaging.  There's  far  too  much  of  it,  and  it  ought 
to  be  stopped.  It  may  be  tolerated  for  a  few  cranks, 
or  silly  young  men,  and  these  new  women,  but  for 

Eustace "  Lady  Casterley  paused  again,  and 

her  fingers  pinched  Barbara's  arm,  "or  for  you — 
there's  only  one  sort  of  marriage  possible.  As  for 
Eustace,  I  shall  speak  to  this  good  lady,  and  see  that 
he  doesn't  get  entangled  further." 

Absorbed  in  the  intensity  of  her  purpose,  she  did 
not  observe  a  peculiar  little  smile  playing  round 
Barbara's  lips. 

"You  had  better  speak  to  Nature,  too,  Granny!" 

Lady  Casterley  stopped  short,  and  looked  up  in 
her  granddaughter's  face. 

"Now  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  said: 
"Tell  me!" 

But  noticing  that  Barbara's  lips  had  closed  tightly, 
she  gave  her  arm  a  hard — if  unintentional — pinch, 
and  walked  on. 


CHAPTER  XII 

LADY  CASTERLEY'S  rather  malicious  diagnosis  of 
Audrey  Noel  was  correct.  The  unencumbered 
woman  was  up  and  in  her  garden  when  Barbara  and 
her  grandmother  appeared  at  the  wicket  gate;  but 
being  near  the  lime-tree  at  the  far  end  she  did  not 
hear  the  rapid  colloquy  which  passed  between  them. 

"You  are  going  to  be  good,  Granny?" 

"As  to  that — it  will  depend." 

"You  promised." 

"H'm!" 

Lady  Casterley  could  not  possibly  have  provided 
herself  with  a  better  introduction  than  Barbara, 
whom  Mrs.  Noel  never  met  without  the  sheer  pleas- 
ure felt  by  a  sympathetic  woman  when  she  sees  em- 
bodied in  someone  else  that  'joy  in  life'  which  Fate 
has  not  permitted  to  herself. 

She  came  forward  with  her  head  a  little  on  one 
side,  a  trick  of  hers  not  at  all  affected,  and  stood 
waiting. 

The  unembarrassed  Barbara  began  at  once: 

"We've  just  had  an  encounter  with  a  bull.  This 
is  my  grandmother,  Lady  Casterley." 

The  little  old  lady's  demeanour,  confronted  with 
this  very  pretty  face  and  figure  was  a  thought  less 
autocratic  and  abrupt  than  usual.  Her  shrewd  eyes 

206 


THE  PATRICIAN  107 

saw  at  once  that  she  had  no  common  adventuress  to 
deal  with.  She  was  woman  of  the  world  enough, 
too,  to  know  that  'birth'  was  not  what  it  had  been 
in  her  young  days,  that  even  money  was  rather 
rococo,  and  that  good  looks,  manners,  and  a  knowl- 
edge of  literature,  art,  and  music  (and  this  woman 
looked  like  one  of  that  sort),  were  often  considered 
socially  more  valuable.  She  was  therefore  both  wary 
and  affable. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said.  "I  have  heard  of 
you.  May  we  sit  down  for  a  minute  in  your  garden  ? 
The  bull  was  a  wretch!" 

But  even  in  speaking,  she  was  uneasily  conscious 
that  Mrs.  Noel's  clear  eyes  were  seeing  very  well 
what  she  had  come  for.  The  look  in  them  indeed 
was  almost  cynical;  and  in  spite  of  her  sympathetic 
murmurs,  she  did  not  somehow  seem  to  believe  in 
the  bull.  This  was  disconcerting.  Why  had  Bar- 
bara condescended  to  mention  the  wretched  brute? 
And  she  decided  to  take  him  by  the  horns. 

"Babs,"  she  said,  "go  to  the  Inn  and  order  me  a 
'fly.'  I  shall  drive  back,  I  feel  very  shaky,"  and,  as 
Mrs.  Noel  offered  to  send  her  maid,  she  added: 
"No,  no,  my  granddaughter  will  go." 

Barbara  having  departed  with  a  quizzical  look, 
Lady  Casterley  patted  the  rustic  seat,  and  said: 
"Do  come  and  sit  down,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Mrs.  Noel  obeyed.  And  at  once  Lady  Casterley 
perceived  that  she  had  a  most  difficult  task  before 
her.  She  had  not  expected  a  woman  with  whom 
one  could  take  no  liberties.  Those  clear  dark  eyes. 


io8  THE  PATRICIAN 

and  that  soft,  perfectly  graceful  manner — to  a  per- 
son so  'sympathetic'  one  should  be  able  to  say  any- 
thing, and — one  couldn't!  It  was  awkward.  And 
suddenly  she  noticed  that  Mrs.  Noel  was  sitting  per- 
fectly upright,  as  upright — more  upright,  than  she 
was  herself.  A  bad  sign — a  very  bad  sign!  Taking 
out  her  handkerchief,  she  put  it  to  her  lips. 

"I  suppose  you  think,"  she  said,  "that  we  were 
not  chased  by  a  bull." 

"I  am  sure  you  were." 

"Indeed!  Ah!  But  I've  something  else  to  talk 
to  you  about." 

Mrs.  Noel's  face  quivered  back,  as  a  flower  might 
when  it  was  going  to  be  plucked;  and  again  Lady 
Casterley  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips.  This 
time  she  rubbed  them  hard.  There  was  nothing  to 
come  off;  to  do  so,  therefore,  was  a  satisfaction. 

"I  am  an  old  woman,"  she  said,  "and  you  mustn't 
mind  what  I  say." 

Mrs.  Noel  did  not  answer,  but  looked  straight  at 
her  visitor;  to  whom  it  seemed  suddenly  that  this 
was  another  person.  What  was  it  about  that  face, 
staring  at  her!  In  a  weird  way  it  reminded  her  of  a 
child  that  one  had  hurt — with  those  great  eyes  and 
that  soft  hair,  and  the  mouth  thin,  in  a  line,  all  of  a 
sudden.  And  as  if  it  had  been  jerked  out  of  her, 
she  said: 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  my  dear.  It's  about 
my  grandson,  of  course." 

But  Mrs.  Noel  made  neither  sign  nor  motion;  and 
the  feeling  of  irritation  which  so  rapidly  attacks  the 


THE  PATRICIAN  1 09 

old  when  confronted  by  the  unexpected,  came  to 
Lady  Casterley's  aid. 

"His  name,"  she  said,  "is  being  coupled  with 
yours  in  a  way  that's  doing  him  a  great  deal  of  harm. 
You  don't  wish  to  injure  him,  I'm  sure." 

Mrs.  Noel  shook  her  head,  and  Lady  Casterley 
went  on: 

"I  don't  know  what  they're  not  saying  since  the 
evening  your  friend  Mr.  Courtier  hurt  his  knee. 
Miltoun  has  been  most  unwise.  You  had  not  per- 
haps realized  that." 

Mrs.  Noel's  answer  was  bitterly  distinct: 

"I  didn't  know  anyone  was  sufficiently  interested 
in  my  doings." 

Lady  Casterley  suffered  a  gesture  of  exasperation 
to  escape  her. 

"Good  heavens!"  she  said;  "every  common  per- 
son is  interested  in  a  woman  whose  position  is  anom- 
alous. Living  alone  as  you  do,  and  not  a  widow, 
you're  fair  game  for  everybody,  especially  in  the 
country." 

Mrs.  Noel's  sidelong  glance,  very  clear  and  cynical, 
seemed  to  say:  "Even  for  you." 

"I  am  not  entitled  to  ask  your  story,"  Lady  Cas- 
terley went  on,  "but  if  you  make  mysteries  you  must 
expect  the  worst  interpretation  put  on  them.  My 
grandson  is  a  man  of  the  highest  principle;  he  does 
not  see  things  with  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  that 
should  have  made  you  doubly  careful  not  to  com- 
promise him,  especially  at  a  time  like  this." 

Mrs.   Noel   smiled.     This   smile   startled   Lady 


HO  THE  PATRICIAN 

Casterley;  it  seemed,  by  concealing  everything,  to 
reveal  depths  of  strength  and  subtlety.  Would  the 
woman  never  show  her  hand  ?  And  she  said  abruptly : 

"Anything  serious,  of  course,  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion." 

"Quite." 

That  word,  which  of  all  others  seemed  the  right 
one,  was  spoken  so  that  Lady  Casterley  did  not  know 
in  the  least  what  it  meant.  Though  occasionally 
employing  irony,  she  detested  it  in  others.  No 
woman  should  be  allowed  to  use  it  as  a  weapon! 
But  in  these  days,  when  they  were  so  foolish  as  to 
want  votes,  one  never  knew  what  women  would  be 
at.  This  particular  woman,  however,  did  not  look 
like  one  of  that  sort.  She  was  feminine — very  fem- 
inine— the  sort  of  creature  that  spoiled  men  by  being 
too  nice  to  them.  And  though  she  had  come  deter- 
mined to  find  out  all  about  everything  and  put  an 
end  to  it,  she  saw  Barbara  re-entering  the  wicket 
gate  with  considerable  relief. 

"I  am  ready  to  walk  home  now,"  she  said.  And 
getting  up  from  the  rustic  seat,  she  made  Mrs.  Noel 
a  satirical  little  bow. 

"Thank  you  for  letting  me  rest.  Give  me  your 
arm,  child." 

Barbara  gave  her  arm,  and  over  her  shoulder  threw 
a  swift  smile  at  Mrs.  Noel,  who  did  not  answer  it, 
but  stood  looking  quietly  after  them,  her  eyes  im- 
mensely dark  and  large. 

Out  in  the  lane  Lady  Casterley  walked  on,  very 
silent,  digesting  her  emotions. 


THE  PATRICIAN  III 

"What  about  the  'fly,'  Granny?" 

"What 'fly'?" 

"The  one  you  told  me  to  order." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  took  me  seri- 
ously?" 

"No,"  said  Barbara. 

"Ha!" 

They  proceeded  some  little  way  farther  before 
Lady  Casterley  said  suddenly: 

"She  is  deep." 

"And  dark,"  said  Barbara.  "I  am  afraid  you 
were  not  good!" 

Lady  Casterley  glanced  upwards. 

"I  detest  this  habit,"  she  said,  "amongst  you 
young  people,  of  taking  nothing  seriously.  Not  even 
bulls,"  she  added,  with  a  grim  smile. 

Barbara  threw  back  her  head  and  sighed. 

"Nor  'flys,'"  she  said. 

Lady  Casterley  saw  that  she  had  closed  her  eyes 
and  opened  her  lips.  And  she  thought: 

"She's  a  very  beautiful  girl.  I  had  no  idea  she 
was  so  beautiful — but  too  big!"  And  she  added 
aloud : 

"Shut  your  mouth!    You  will  get  one  down!" 

They  spoke  no  more  till  they  had  entered  the 
avenue;  then  Lady  Casterley  said  sharply: 

"Who  is  this  coming  down  the  drive?" 

"Mr.  Courtier,  I  think." 

"What  does  he  mean  by  it,  with  that  leg?" 

"He  is  coming  to  talk  to  you,  Granny." 

Lady  Casterley  stopped  short. 


ri2  THE  PATRICIAN 

"  You  are  a  cat,"  she  said ;  "  a  sly  cat.  Now  mind, 
Babs,  I  won't  have  it!" 

"No,  darling,"  murmured  Barbara;  "you  shan't 
have  it — I'll  take  him  off  your  hands." 

"What  does  your  mother  mean,"  stammered  Lady 
Casterley,  "letting  you  grow  up  like  this!  You're  as 
bad  as  she  was  at  your  age!" 

"Worse!"  said  Barbara.  "I  dreamed  last  night 
that  I  could  fly!" 

"If  you  try  that,"  said  Lady  Casterley  grimly, 
"you'll  soon  come  to  grief.  Good-morning,  sir; 
you  ought  to  be  in  bed!" 

Courtier  raised  his  hat. 

"Surely  it  is  not  for  me  to  be  where  you  are  not!" 
And  he  added  gloomily:  "The  war  scare's  dead!" 

"Ah!"  said  Lady  Casterley:  "your  occupation's 
gone  then.  You'll  go  back  to  London  now,  I  sup- 
pose "  Looking  suddenly  at  Barbara  she  saw  that 
the  girl's  eyes  were  half-closed,  and  that  she  was 
smiling;  it  seemed  to  Lady  Casterley  too — or  was  it 
fancy? — that  she  shook  her  head. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THANKS  to  Lady  Valleys,  a  patroness  of  birds,  no 
owl  was  ever  shot  on  the  Monkland  Court  estate, 
and  those  soft-flying  spirits  of  the  dusk  hooted  and 
hunted,  to  the  great  benefit  of  all  except  the  creeping 
voles.  By  every  farm,  cottage,  and  field,  they  passed 
invisible,  quartering  the  dark  air.  Their  voyages  of 
discovery  stretched  up  on  to  the  moor  as  far  as  the 
wild  stone  man,  whose  origin  their  wisdom  perhaps 
knew.  Round  Audrey  Noel's  cottage  they  were  as 
thick  as  thieves,  for  they  had  just  there  two  habita- 
tions in  a  long,  old,  holly-grown  wall,  and  almost 
seemed  to  be  guarding  the  mistress  of  that  thatched 
dwelling — so  numerous  were  their  fluttering  rushes, 
so  tenderly  prolonged  their  soft  sentinel  callings. 
Now  that  the  weather  was  really  warm,  so  that  joy 
of  life  was  in  the  voles,  they  found  those  succulent 
creatures  of  an  extraordinarily  pleasant  flavour,  and 
on  them  each  pair  was  bringing  up  a  family  of  ex- 
ceptionally fine  little  owls,  very  solemn,  with  big 
heads,  bright  large  eyes,  and  wings  as  yet  only  able 
to  fly  downwards.  There  was  scarcely  any  hour 
from  noon  of  the  day  (for  some  of  them  had  horns) 
to  the  small  sweet  hours  when  no  one  heard  them, 
that  they  forgot  to  salute  the  very  large,  quiet,  wing- 
less owl  whom  they  could  espy  moving  about  by  day 
above  their  mouse-runs,  or  preening  her  white  and 

"3 


U4  THE  PATRICIAN 

sometimes  blue  and  sometimes  grey  feathers  morning 
and  evening  in  a  large  square  hole  high  up  in  the 
front  wall.  And  they  could  not  understand  at  all 
why  no  swift  depredating  graces  nor  any  habit  of 
long  soft  hooting  belonged  to  that  lady-bird. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  when  she  received  that 
early  morning  call,  as  soon  as  dusk  had  fallen, 
wrapped  in  a  long  thin  cloak,  with  black  lace  over 
her  dark  hair,  Audrey  Noel  herself  fluttered  out  into 
the  lanes,  as  if  to  join  the  grave  winged  hunters  of 
the  invisible  night.  Those  far,  continual  sounds, 
not  stilled  in  the  country  till  long  after  the  sun  dies, 
had  but  just  ceased  from  haunting  the  air,  where  the 
late  May-scent  clung  as  close  as  fragrance  clings  to 
a  woman's  robe.  There  was  just  the  barking  of  a 
dog,  the  boom  of  migrating  chafers,  the  song  of  the 
stream,  and  of  the  owls,  to  proclaim  the  beating  in 
the  heart  of  this  sweet  Night.  Nor  was  there  any 
light  by  which  Night's  face  could  be  seen;  it  was 
hidden,  anonymous;  so  that  when  a  lamp  in  a  cot- 
tage threw  a  blink  over  the  opposite  bank,  it  was 
as  if  some  wandering  painter  had  wrought  a  picture 
of  stones  and  leaves  on  the  black  air,  framed  it  in 
purple,  and  left  it  hanging.  Yet,  if  it  could  only  have 
been  come  at,  the  Night  was  as  full  of  emotion  as 
this  woman  who  wandered,  shrinking  away  against 
the  banks  if  anyone  passed,  stopping  to  cool  her  hot 
face  with  the  dew  on  the  ferns,  walking  swiftly  to 
console  her  warm  heart.  Anonymous  Night  seek- 
ing for  a  symbol  could  have  found  none  better  than 
this  errant  figure,  to  express  its  hidden  longings,  the 


THE  PATRICIAN  115 

fluttering,  unseen  rushes  of  its  dark  wings,  and  all 
its  secret  passion  of  revolt  against  its  own  anonym- 
ity  

At  Monkland  Court,  save  for  little  Ann,  the  morn- 
ing passed  but  dumbly,  everyone  feeling  that  some- 
thing must  be  done,  and  no  one  knowing  what.  At 
lunch,  the  only  allusion  to  the  situation  had  been 
Harbinger's  inquiry: 

"When  does  Miltoun  return?" 

He  had  wired,  it  seemed,  to  say  that  he  was  motor- 
ing down  that  night. 

"The  sooner  the  better,"  Sir  William  murmured: 
"we've  still  a  fortnight." 

But  all  had  felt  from  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke 
these  words,  how  serious  was  the  position  in  the  eyes 
of  that  experienced  campaigner. 

What  with  the  collapse  of  the  war  scare,  and  this 
canard  about  Mrs.  Noel,  there  was  indeed  cause  for 
alarm. 

The  afternoon  post  brought  a  letter  from  Lord 
Valleys  marked  Express. 

Lady  Valleys  opened  it  with  a  slight  grimace, 
which  deepened  as  she  read.  Her  handsome,  florid 
face  wore  an  expression  of  sadness  seldom  seen  there. 
There  was,  in  fact,  more  than  a  touch  of  dignity  in 
her  reception  of  the  unpalatable  news. 

"Eustace  declares  his  intention  of  marrying  this  Mrs. 
Noel" — so  ran  her  husband's  letter — "I  know,  unfortunately, 
of  no  way  in  which  I  can  prevent  him.  If  you  can  discover 
legitimate  means  of  dissuasion,  it  would  be  well  to  use  them. 
My  dear,  it's  the  very  devil." 


u6  THE  PATRICIAN 

It  was  the  very  devil!  For,  if  Miltoun  had  al- 
ready made  up  his  mind  to  marry  her,  without 
knowledge  of  the  malicious  rumour,  what  would  not 
be  his  determination  now?  And  the  woman  of  the 
world  rose  up  in  Lady  Valleys.  This  marriage  must 
not  come  off.  It  was  contrary  to  almost  every  in- 
stinct of  one  who  was  practical  not  only  by  character, 
but  by  habit  of  life  and  training.  Her  warm  and 
full-blooded  nature  had  a  sneaking  sympathy  with 
love  and  pleasure,  and  had  she  not  been  practical, 
she  might  have  found  this  side  of  her  a  serious  draw- 
back to  the  main  tenor  of  a  life  so  much  in  view  of 
the  public  eye.  Her  consciousness  of  this  danger  in 
her  own  case  made  her  extremely  alive  to  the  risks 
of  an  undesirable  connection — especially  if  it  were 
a  marriage — to  any  public  man.  At  the  same  time 
the  mother-heart  in  her  was  stirred.  Eustace  had 
never  been  so  deep  in  her  affection  as  Bertie,  still  he 
was  her  first-born ;  and  in  face  of  news  which  meant 
that  he  was  lost  to  her — for  this  must  indeed  be  'the 
marriage  of  two  minds'  (or  whatever  that  quotation 
was) — she  felt  strangely  jealous  of  a  woman,  who 
had  won  her  son's  love,  when  she  herself  had  never 
won  it.  The  aching  of  this  jealousy  gave  her  face 
for  a  moment  almost  a  spiritual  expression,  then 
passed  away  into  impatience.  Why  should  he 
marry  her?  Things  could  be  arranged.  People 
spoke  of  it  already  as  an  illicit  relationship;  well 
then,  let  people  have  what  they  had  invented.  If 
the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  this  was  not  the  only 
constituency  in  England;  and  a  dissolution  could 


THE  PATRICIAN  117 

not  be  far  off.  Better  anything  than  a  marriage 
which  would  handicap  him  all  his  life!  But  would 
it  be  so  great  a  handicap  ?  After  all,  beauty  counted 
for  much!  If  only  her  story  were  not  too  conspicu- 
ous !  But  what  was  her  story  ?  Not  to  know  it  was 
absurd !  That  was  the  worst  of  people  who  were  not 
in  Society,  it  was  so  difficult  to  find  out !  And  there 
rose  in  her  that  almost  brutal  resentment,  which 
ferments  very  rapidly  in  those  who  from  their  youth 
up  have  been  hedged  round  with  the  belief  that  they 
and  they  alone  are  the  whole  of  the  world.  In  this 
mood  Lady  Valleys  passed  the  letter  to  her  daughters. 
They  read,  and  in  turn  handed  it  to  Bertie,  who  in 
silence  returned  it  to  his  mother. 

But  that  evening,  in  the  billiard-room,  having 
manoeuvred  to  get  him  to  herself,  Barbara  said  to 
Courtier: 

"I  wonder  if  you  will  answer  me  a  question,  Mr. 
Courtier?" 

"If  I  may,  and  can." 

Her  low-cut  dress  was  of  yew-green,  with  little 
threads  of  flame-colour,  matching  her  hair,  so  that 
there  was  about  her  a  splendour  of  darkness  and 
whiteness  and  gold,  almost  dazzling;  and  she  stood 
very  still,  leaning  back  against  the  lighter  green  of 
the  billiard- table,  grasping  its  edge  so  tightly  that 
the  smooth  strong  backs  of  her  hands  quivered. 

"We  have  just  heard  that  Miltoun  is  going  to  ask 
Mrs.  Noel  to  marry  him.  People  are  never  mysteri- 
ous, are  they,  without  good  reason?  I  wanted  you 
to  tell  me — who  is  she?" 


n8  THE  PATRICIAN 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  grasp  the  situation,"  mur- 
mured Courtier.  "You  said — to  marry  him?" 

Seeing  that  she  had  put  out  her  hand,  as  if  begging 
for  the  truth,  he  added:  "How  can  your  brother 
marry  her — she's  married!" 

"Oh!" 

"I'd  no  idea  you  didn't  know  that  much." 

"We  thought  there  was  a  divorce." 

The  expression  of  which  mention  has  been  made 
— that  peculiar  white-hot  sardonically  jolly  look — 
visited  Courtier's  face  at  once.  "Hoist  with  their 
own  petard !  The  usual  thing.  Let  a  pretty  woman 
live  alone — the  tongues  of  men  will  do  the  rest." 

"It  was  not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Barbara  dryly; 
"they  said  she  had  divorced  her  husband." 

Caught  out  thus  characteristically  riding  past  the 
hounds  Courtier  bit  his  lips. 

"You  had  better  hear  the  story  now.  Her  father 
was  a  country  parson,  and  a  friend  of  my  father's; 
so  that  I've  known  her  from  a  child.  Stephen  Lees 
Noel  was  his  curate.  It  was  a  'snap'  marriage — she 
was  only  twenty,  and  had  met  hardly  any  men.  Her 
father  was  ill  and  wanted  to  see  her  settled  before  he 
died.  Well,  she  found  out  almost  directly,  like  a 
good  many  other  people,  that  she'd  made  an  utter 
mistake." 

Barbara  came  a  little  closer. 

"What  was  the  man  like?" 

"Not  bad  in  his  way,  but  one  of  those  narrow, 
conscientious  pig-headed  fellows  who  make  the  most 
trying  kind  of  husband — bone  egoistic.  A  parson 


THE   PATRICIAN  119 

of  that  type  has  no  chance  at  all.  Every  mortal 
thing  he  has  to  do  or  say  helps  him  to  develop  his 
worst  points.  The  wife  of  a  man  like  that's  no 
better  than  a  slave.  She  began  to  show  the  strain 
of  it  at  last;  though  she's  the  sort  who  goes  on  till 
she  snaps  It  took  him  four  years  to  realize.  Then, 
the  question  was,  what  were  they  to  do?  He's  a 
very  High  Churchman,  with  all  their  feeling  about 
marriage;  but  luckily  his  pride  was  wounded. 
Anyway,  they  separated  two  years  ago;  and  there 
she  is,  left  high  and  dry.  People  say  it  was  her 
fault.  She  ought  to  have  known  her  own  mind — at 
twenty!  She  ought  to  have  held  on  and  hidden  it 
up  somehow.  Confound  their  thick-skinned  char- 
itable souls,  what  do  they  know  of  how  a  sensitive 
woman  suffers?  Forgive  me,  Lady  Barbara — I  get 
hot  over  this."  He  was  silent;  then  seeing  her  eyes 
fixed  on  him,  went  on:  "Her  mother  died  when  she 
was  born,  her  father  soon  after  her  marriage.  She's 
enough  money  of  her  own,  luckily,  to  live  on  quietly. 
As  for  him,  he  changed  his  parish  and  runs  one 
somewhere  in  the  Midlands.  One's  sorry  for  the 
poor  devil,  too,  of  course!  They  never  see  each 
other;  and,  ?o  far  as  I  know,  they  don't  correspond. 
That,  Lady  Barbara,  is  the  simple  history." 

Barbara  said,  "Thank  you,"  and  turned  away; 
and  he  heard  her  mutter:  "What  a  shame!" 

But  he  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  Mrs.  Noel's 
fate,  or  the  husband's  fate,  or  the  thought  of  Miltoun 
that  had  moved  her  to  those  words. 

She  puzzled  him  by  her  self-possession,  so  almost 


120  THE  PATRICIAN 

hard,  her  way  of  refusing  to  show  feeling.  Yet  what 
a  woman  she  would  make  if  the  drying  curse  of  high- 
caste  life  were  not  allowed  to  stereotype  and  shrivel 
her!  If  enthusiasm  were  suffered  to  penetrate  and 
fertilize  her  soul!  She  reminded  him  of  a  great 
tawny  lily.  He  had  a  vision  of  her,  as  that  flower, 
floating,  freed  of  roots  and  the  mould  of  its  culti- 
vated soil,  in  the  liberty  of  the  impartial  air.  What 
a  passionate  and  noble  thing  she  might  become! 
What  radiance  and  perfume  she  would  exhale!  A 
spirit  Fleur-de-Lys!  Sister  to  all  the  noble  flowers 
of  light  that  inhabited  the  wind! 

Leaning  in  the  deep  embrasure  of  his  window,  he 
looked  at  anonymous  Night.  He  could  hear  the 
owls  hoot,  and  feel  a  heart  beating  out  there  some- 
where in  the  darkness,  but  there  came  no  answer  to 
his  wondering.  Would  she — this  great  tawny  lily  of 
a  girl — »ver  become  unconscious  of  her  environment, 
not  m  manner  merely,  but  in  the  very  soul,  so  that 
she  might  be  just  a  woman,  breathing,  suffering, 
loving,  and  rejoicing  with  the  poet  soul  of  all  man- 
kind ?  Would  she  ever  be  capable  of  riding  out  with 
the  little  company  of  big  hearts,  naked  of  advantage  ? 
Courtier  had  not  been  inside  a  church  for  twenty 
years,  having  long  felt  that  he  must  not  enter  the 
mosques  of  his  country  without  putting  off  the  shoes 
of  freedom,  but  he  read  the  Bible,  considering  it  a 
very  great  poem.  And  the  old  words  came  haunt- 
ing him:  'Verily  I  say  unto  you,  It  is  harder  for  a 
camel  to  pass  through  the  eye  of  a  needle  than  for  a 
rich  man  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  Heaven.*  And 


THE  PATRICIAN  1 21 

now,  looking  into  the  Night,  whose  darkness  seemed 
to  hold  the  answer  to  all  secrets,  he  tried  to  read  the 
riddle  of  this  girl's  future,  with  which  there  seemed 
so  interwoven  that  larger  enigma,  how  far  the  spirit 
can  free  itself,  in  this  life,  from  the  matter  that 
encompasseth. 

The  Night  whispered  suddenly,  and  low  down,  as 
if  rising  from  the  sea,  came  the  moon,  dropping  a 
wan  robe  of  light  till  she  gleamed  out  nude  against 
the  sky-curtain.  Night  was  no  longer  anonymous. 
There  in  the  dusky  garden  the  statue  of  Diana 
formed  slowly  before  his  eyes,  and  behind  her — as 
it  were,  her  temple — rose  the  tall  spire  of  the  cypress 
tree. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  COPY  of  the  Bucklandbury  News,  containing  an 
account  of  his  evening  adventure,  did  not  reach  Mil- 
toun  till  he  was  just  starting  on  his  return  journey. 
It  came  marked  with  blue  pencil  together  with  a  note. 

"Mv  DEAR  EUSTACE, 

"The  enclosed — however  unwarranted  and  impudent — re- 
quires attention.  But  we  shall  do  nothing  till  you  come  back. 

"Yours  ever, 

"WILLIAM  SHROPTON." 

The  effect  on  Miltoun  might  perhaps  have  been 
different  had  he  not  been  so  conscious  of  his  inten- 
tion to  ask  Audrey  Noel  to  be  his  wife;  but  in  any 
circumstances  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  would  have 
done  more  than  smile,  and  tear  the  paper  up.  Truly 
that  sort  of  thing  had  so  little  power  to  hurt  or  dis- 
turb him  personally,  that  he  was  incapable  of  seeing 
how  it  could  hurt  or  disturb  others.  If  those  who 
read  it  were  affected,  so  much  the  worse  for  them. 
He  had  a  real,  if  unobtrusive,  contempt  for  ground- 
lings, of  whatever  class;  and  it  never  entered  his 
head  to  step  an  inch  out  of  his  course  in  deference  to 
their  vagaries.  Nor  did  it  come  home  to  him  that 
Mrs.  Noel,  wrapped  in  the  glamour  which  he  cast 


THE  PATRICIAN  123 

about  her,  could  possibly  suffer  from  the  meanness 
of  vulgar  minds.  Shropton's  note,  indeed,  caused 
him  the  more  annoyance  of  those  two  documents. 
It  was  like  his  brother-in-law  to  make  much  of  little! 

He  hardly  dozed  at  all  during  his  swift  journey 
through  the  sleeping  country;  nor  when  he  reached 
his  room  at  Monkland  did  he  go  to  bed.  He  had 
the  wonderful,  upborne  feeling  of  man  on  the  verge 
of  achievement.  His  spirit  and  senses  were  both  on 
fire — for  that  was  the  quality  of  this  woman,  she 
suffered  no  part  of  him  to  sleep,  and  he  was  glad  of 
her  exactions. 

He  drank  some  tea,  went  out,  and  took  a  path  up 
to  the  moor.  It  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock  when  he 
reached  the  top  of  the  nearest  tor.  And  there,  below 
him,  around,  and  above,  was  a  land  and  sky  tran- 
scending even  his  exaltation.  It  was  like  a  sym- 
phony of  great  music ;  or  the  nobility  of  a  stupendous 
mind  laid  bare;  it  was  God  up  there,  in  His  many 
moods.  Serenity  was  spread  in  the  middle  heavens, 
blue,  illimitable,  and  along  to  the  East,  three  huge 
clouds,  like  thoughts  brooding  over  the  destinies  be- 
low, moved  slowly  toward  the  sea,  so  that  great 
shadows  filled  the  valleys.  And  the  land  that  lay 
under  all  the  other  sky  was  gleaming,  and  quivering 
with  every  colour,  as  it  were,  clothed  with  the  divine 
smile.  The  wind,  from  the  North,  whereon  floated 
the  white  birds  of  the  smaller  clouds,  had  no  voice, 
for  it  was  above  barriers,  utterly  free.  Before  Mil- 
toun,  turning  to  this  wind,  lay  the  maze  of  the  lower 
lands,  the  misty  greens,  rose  pinks,  and  browns  of 


124  THE  PATRICIAN 

the  fields,  and  white  and  grey  dots  and  strokes  of 
cottages  and  church  towers,  fading  into  the  blue 
veil  of  distance,  confined  by  a  far  range  of  hills. 
Behind  him  there  was  nothing  but  the  restless  sur- 
face of  the  moor,  coloured  purplish-brown.  On 
that  untamed  sea  of  graven  wildness  could  be  seen 
no  ship  of  man,  save  one,  on  the  far  horizon — the 
grim  hulk,  Dartmoor  Prison.  There  was  no  sound, 
no  scent,  and  it  seemed  to  Miltoun  as  if  his  spirit 
had  left  his  body,  and  become  part  of  the  solemnity 
of  God.  Yet,  as  he  stood  there,  with  his  head  bared, ' 
that  strange  smile  which  haunted  him  in  moments 
of  deep  feeling,  showed  that  he  had  not  surrendered 
to  the  Universal,  that  his  own  spirit  was  but  being 
fortified,  and  that  this  was  the  true  and  secret  source 
of  his  delight.  He  lay  down  in  a  scoop  of  the  stones. 
The  sun  entered  there,  but  no  wind,  so  that  a  dry 
sweet  scent  exuded  from  the  young  shoots  of  heather. 
That  warmth  and  perfume  crept  through  the  shield 
of  his  spirit,  and  stole  into  his  blood ;  ardent  images 
rose  before  him,  the  vision  of  an  unending  embrace. 
Out  of  an  embrace  sprang  Life,  out  of  that  the  World 
was  made,  this  World,  with  its  innumerable  forms, 
and  natures — no  two  alike!  And  from  him  and  her 
would  spring  forms  to  take  their  place  in  the  great 
pattern.  This  seemed  wonderful,  and  right — for 
they  would  be  worthy  forms,  who  would  hand  on 
those  traditions  which  seemed  to  him  so  necessary 
and  great.  And  then  there  broke  on  him  one  of 
those  delirious  waves  of  natural  desire,  against  which 
he  had  so  often  fought,  so  often  with  great  pain  con- 


THE  PATRICIAN  125 

quered.    He  got  up,  and  ran  downhill,  leaping  over 
the  stones,  and  the  thicker  clumps  of  heather. 

Audrey  Noel,  too,  had  been  early  astir,  though  she 
had  gone  late  enough  to  bed.  She  dressed  languidly, 
but  very  carefully,  being  one  of  those  women  who 
put  on  armour  against  Fate,  because  they  are  proud, 
and  dislike  the  thought  that  their  sufferings  should 
make  others  suffer;  because,  too,  their  bodies  are  to 
them  as  it  were  sacred,  having  been  given  them  in 
trust,  to  cause  delight.  When  she  had  finished,  she 
looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  rather  more  distrustfully 
than  usual.  She  felt  that  her  sort  of  woman  was  at  a 
discount  in  these  days,  and  being  sensitive,  she  was 
never  content  either  with  her  appearance,  or  her 
habits.  But,  for  all  that,  she  went  on  behaving  in 
unsatisfactory  ways,  because  she  incorrigibly  loved 
to  look  as  charming  as  she  could ;  and  even  if  no  one 
were  going  to  see  her,  she  never  felt  that  she  looked 
charming  enough.  She  was — as  Lady  Casterley  had 
shrewdly  guessed — the  kind  of  woman  who  spoils 
men  by  being  too  nice  to  them;  of  no  use  to  those 
who  wish  women  to  assert  themselves;  yet  having  a 
certain  passive  stoicism,  very  disconcerting.  With 
little  or  no  power  of  initiative,  she  would  do  what  she 
was  set  to  do  with  a  thoroughness  that  would  shame 
an  initiator;  temperamentally  unable  to  beg  any- 
thing of  anybody,  she  required  love  as  a  plant  re- 
quires water;  she  could  give  herself  completely,  yet 
remain  oddly  incorruptible;  in  a  word,  hopeless, 
and  usually  beloved  of  those  who  thought  her  so, 


126  THE  PATRICIAN 

With  all  this,  however,  she  was  not  quite  what  is 
called  a  'sweet  woman' — a  phrase  she  detested — for 
there  was  in  her  a  queer  vein  of  gentle  cynicism. 
She  'saw'  with  extraordinary  clearness,  as  if  she 
had  been  born  in  Italy  and  still  carried  that  clear 
dry  atmosphere  about  her  soul.  She  loved  glow  and 
warmth  and  colour;  such  mysticism  as  she  felt  was 
pagan;  and  she  had  few  aspirations — sufficient  to 
her  were  things  as  they  showed  themselves  to  be. 

This  morning,  when  she  had  made  herself  smell  of 
geraniums,  and  fastened  all  the  small  contrivances 
that  hold  even  the  best  of  women  together,  she  went 
downstairs  to  her  little  dining-room,  set  the  spirit 
lamp  going,  and  taking  up  her  newspaper,  stood 
waiting  to  make  tea. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  day  most  dear  to  her.  If 
the  dew  had  been  brushed  off  her  life,  it  was  still  out 
there  every  morning  on  the  face  of  Nature,  and  on 
the  faces  of  her  flowers;  there  was  before  her  all  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  how  each  of  those  little  creatures 
in  the  garden  had  slept;  how  many  children  had 
been  born  since  the  Dawn;  who  was  ailing,  and 
needed  attention.  There  was  also  the  feeling,  which 
renews  itself  every  morning  in  people  who  live  lonely 
lives,  that  they  are  not  lonely,  until,  the  day  wearing 
on,  assures  them  of  the  fact.  Not  that  she  was  idle, 
for  she  had  obtained  through  Courtier  the  work  of 
reviewing  music  in  a  woman's  paper,  for  which  she 
was  intuitively  fitted.  This,  her  flowers,  her  own 
music,  and  the  affairs  of  certain  families  of  cottagers, 
filled  nearly  all  her  time.  And  she  asked  no  better 


THE  PATRICIAN  127 

fate  than  to  have  every  minute  occupied,  having 
that  passion  for  work  requiring  no  initiation,  which 
is  natural  to  the  owners  of  lazy  minds. 

Suddenly  she  dropped  her  newspaper,  went  to  the 
bowl  of  flowers  on  the  breakfast-table,  and  plucked 
forth  two  stalks  of  lavender;  holding  them  away 
from  her,  she  went  out  into  the  garden,  and  flung 
them  over  the  wall. 

This  strange  immolation  of  those  two  poor  sprigs, 
born  so  early,  gathered  and  placed  before  her  with 
such  kind  intention  by  her  maid,  seemed  of  all  acts 
the  least  to  be  expected  of  one  who  hated  to  hurt 
people's  feelings,  and  whose  eyes  always  shone  at  the 
sight  of  flowers.  But  in  truth  the  smell  of  lavender 
— that  scent  carried  on  her  husband's  handkerchief 
and  clothes — still  affected  her  so  strongly  that  she 
could  not  bear  to  be  in  a  room  with  it.  As  nothing 
else  did,  it  brought  before  her  one,  to  live  with  whom 
had  slowly  become  torture.  And  freed  by  that  scent, 
the  whole  flood  of  memory  broke  in  on  her.  The 
memory  of  three  years  when  her  teeth  had  been  set 
doggedly  on  her  discovery  that  she  was  chained  to 
unhappiness  for  life;  the  memory  of  the  abrupt  end, 
and  of  her  creeping  away  to  let  her  scorched  nerves 
recover.  Of  how  during  the  first  year  of  this  re- 
lease which  was  not  freedom,  she  had  twice  changed 
her  abode,  to  get  away  from  her  own  story — not  be- 
cause she  was  ashamed  of  it,  but  because  it  reminded 
her  of  wretchedness.  Of  how  she  had  then  come 
to  Monkland,  where  the  quiet  life  had  slowly  given 
her  elasticity  again.  And  then  of  her  meeting  with 


128  THE  PATRICIAN 

Miltoun;  the  unexpected  delight  of  that  companion- 
ship; the  frank  enjoyment  of  the  first  four  months. 
And  she  remembered  all  her  secret  rejoicing,  her 
silent  identification  of  another  life  with  her  own, 
before  she  acknowledged  or  even  suspected  love. 
And  just  three  weeks  ago  now,  helping  to  tie  up  her 
roses,  he  had  touched  her,  and  she  had  known. 
But  even  then,  until  the  night  of  Courtier's  accident, 
she  had  not  dared  to  realize.  More  concerned  now 
for  him  than  for  herself,  she  asked  herself  a  thousand 
times  if  she  had  been  to  blame.  She  had  let  him 
grow  fond  of  her,  a  woman  out  of  court,  a  dead 
woman!  An  unpardonable  sin!  Yet  surely  that 
depended  on  what  she  was  prepared  to  give!  And 
she  was  frankly  ready  to  give  everything,  and  ask 
for  nothing.  He  knew  her  position,  he  had  told  her 
that  he  knew.  In  her  love  for  him  she  gloried, 
would  continue  to  glory;  would  suffer  for  it  without 
regret.  Miltoun  was  right  in  believing  that  news- 
paper gossip  was  incapable  of  hurting  her,  though 
her  reasons  for  being  so  impervious  were  not  what 
he  supposed.  She  was  not,  like  him,  secured  from 
pain  because  such  insinuations  about  the  private 
affairs  of  others  were  mean  and  vulgar  and  beneath 
notice;  it  had  not  as  yet  occurred  to  her  to  look  at 
the  matter  in  so  lofty  and  general  a  light;  she  simply 
was  not  hurt,  because  she  was  already  so  deeply 
Miltoun's  property  in  spirit,  that  she  was  almost 
glad  that  they  should  assign  him  all  the  rest  of  her. 
But  for  Miltoun's  sake  she  was  disturbed  to  the 
soul.  She  had  tarnished  his  shield  in  the  eyes  of 


THE  PATRICIAN  129 

men;  and  (for  she  was  oddly  practical,  and  saw 
things  in  very  clear  proportion)  perhaps  put  back 
his  career,  who  knew  how  many  years! 

She  sat  down  to  drink  her  tea.  Not  being  a  cry- 
ing woman,  she  suffered  quietly.  She  felt  that  Mil- 
toun  would  be  coming  to  her.  She  did  not  know  at 
all  what  she  should  say  when  he  did  come.  He 
could  not  care  for  her  so  much  as  she  cared  for  him ! 
He  was  a  man;  men  soon  forget!  Ah!  but  he  was 
not  like  most  men.  One  could  not  look  at  his  eyes 
without  feeling  that  he  could  suffer  terribly!  In  all 
this  her  own  reputation  concerned  her  not  at  all. 
Life,  and  her  clear  way  of  looking  at  things,  had 
rooted  in  her  the  conviction  that  to  a  woman  the 
preciousness  of  her  reputation  was  a  fiction  invented 
by  men  entirely  for  man's  benefit;  a  second-hand 
fetish  insidiously,  inevitably  set-up  by  men  for  wor- 
ship, in  novels,  plays,  and  law-courts.  Her  instinct 
told  her  that  men  could  not  feel  secure  in  the  posses- 
sion of  their  women  unless  they  could  believe  that 
women  set  tremendous  store  by  sexual  reputation. 
What  they  wanted  to  believe,  that  they  did  believe! 
But  she  knew  otherwise.  Such  great-minded  women 
as  she  had  met  or  read  of  had  always  left  on  her  the 
impression  that  reputation  for  them  was  a  matter  of 
the  spirit,  having  little  to  do  with  sex.  From  her 
own  feelings  she  knew  that  reputation,  for  a  simple 
woman,  meant  to  stand  well  in  the  eyes  of  him  or 
her  whom  she  loved  best.  For  worldly  women — and 
there  were  so  many  kinds  of  those,  besides  the  merely 
fashionable — she  had  always  noted  that  its  value 


130  THE  PATRICIAN 

was  not  intrinsic,  but  commercial;  not  a  crown  of 
dignity,  but  just  a  marketable  asset.  She  did  not 
dread  in  the  least  what  people  might  say  of  her 
friendship  with  Miltoun ;  nor  did  she  feel  at  all  that 
her  indissoluble  marriage  forbade  her  loving  him. 
She  had  secretly  felt  free  as  soon  as  she  had  discov- 
ered that  she  had  never  really  loved  her  husband; 
she  had  only  gone  on  dutifully  until  the  separation, 
from  sheer  passivity,  and  because  it  was  against  her 
nature  to  cause  pain  to  anyone.  The  man  who  was 
still  her  husband  was  now  as  dead  to  her  as  if  he  had 
never  been  born.  She  could  not  marry  again,  it 
was  true;  but  she  could  and  did  love.  If  that  love 
was  to  be  starved  and  die  away,  it  would  not  be 
because  of  any  moral  scruples. 

She  opened  her  paper  languidly;  and  almost  the 
first  words  she  read,  under  the  heading  of  Election 
News,  were  these: 

'Apropos  of  the  outrage  on  Mr.  Courtier,  we  are  requested 
to  state  that  the  lady  who  accompanied  Lord  Miltoun  to  the 
rescue  of  that  gentleman  was  Mrs.  Lees  Noel,  wife  of  the  Rev. 
Stephen  Lees  Noel,  vicar  of  Clathampton,  Warwickshire.' 

This  dubious  little  daub  of  whitewash  only  brought 
a  rather  sad  smile  to  her  lips.  She  left  her  tea,  and 
went  out  into  the  air.  There  at  the  gate  was  Mil- 
toun coming  in.  Her  heart  leaped.  But  she  went 
forward  quietly,  and  greeted  him  with  cast-down 
eyes,  as  if  nothing  were  out  of  the  ordinary. 


CHAPTER  XV 

EXALTATION  had  not  left  Miltoun.  His  sallow 
face  was  flushed,  his  eyes  glowed  with  a  sort  of 
beauty;  and  Audrey  Noel  who,  better  than  most 
women,  could  read  what  was  passing  behind  a  face, 
saw  those  eyes  with  the  delight  of  a  moth  fluttering 
towards  a  lamp.  But  in  a  very  unemotional  voice 
she  said: 

"So  you  have  come  to  breakfast.  How  nice  of 
you!" 

It  was  not  in  Miltoun  to  observe  the  formalities 
of  attack.  Had  he  been  going  to  fight  a  duel  there 
would  have  been  no  preliminary,  just  a  look,  a  bow, 
and  the  swords  crossed.  So  in  this  first  engagement 
of  his  with  the  soul  of  a  woman ! 

He  neither  sat  down  nor  suffered  her  to  sit,  but 
stood  looking  intently  into  her  face,  and  said: 

"I  love  you." 

Now  that  it  had  come,  with  this  disconcerting 
swiftness,  she  was  strangely  calm,  and  unashamed. 
The  elation  of  knowing  for  sure  that  she  was  loved 
was  like  a  wand  waving  away  all  tremors,  stilling 
them  to  sweetness.  Since  nothing  could  take  away 
that  knowledge,  it  seemed  that  she  could  never  again 
be  utterly  unhappy.  Then,  too,  in  her  nature,  so 
deeply,  unreasoningly  incapable  of  perceiving  the 


132  THE  PATRICIAN 

importance  of  any  principle  but  love,  there  was  a 
secret  feeling  of  assurance,  of  triumph.  He  did  love 
her!  And  she,  him!  Well!  And  suddenly  panic- 
stricken,  lest  he  should  take  back  those  words,  she 
put  her  hand  up  to  his  breast,  and  said: 

"And  I  love  you." 

The  feel  of  his  arms  round  her,  the  strength  and 
passion  of  that  moment,  were  so  terribly  sweet,  that 
she  died  to  thought,  just  looking  up  at  him,  with  lips 
parted  and  eyes  darker  with  the  depth  of  her  love 
than  he  had  ever  dreamed  that  eyes  could  be.  The 
madness  of  his  own  feeling  kept  him  silent.  And 
they  stood  there,  so  merged  in  one  another  that  they 
knew  and  cared  nothing  for  any  other  mortal  thing. 
It  was  very  still  in  the  room;  the  roses  and  carnations 
in  the  lustre  bowl,  seeming  to  know  that  their  mis- 
tress was  caught  up  into  heaven,  had  let  their  per- 
fume steal  forth  and  occupy  every  cranny  of  the 
abandoned  air;  a  hovering  bee,  too,  circled  round 
the  lovers'  heads,  scenting,  it  seemed,  the  honey  in 
their  hearts. 

It  has  been  said  that  Miltoun's  face  was  not  un- 
handsome; for  Audrey  Noel  at  this  moment  when 
his  eyes  were  so  near  hers,  and  his  lips  touching  her, 
he  was  transfigured,  and  had  become  the  spirit  of 
all  beauty.  And  she,  with  heart  beating  fast  against 
him,  her  eyes,  half  closing  from  delight,  and  her  hair 
asking  to  be  praised  with  its  fragrance,  her  cheeks 
fainting  pale  with  emotion,  and  her  arms  too  languid 
with  happiness  to  embrace  him — she,  to  him,  was 
the  incarnation  of  the  woman  that  visits  dreams. 


THE  PATRICIAN  133 

So  passed  that  moment. 

The  bee  ended  it;  who,  impatient  with  flowers 
that  hid  their  honey  so  deep,  had  entangled  himself 
in  Audrey's  hair.  And  then,  seeing  that  words, 
those  dreaded  things,  were  on  his  lips,  she  tried  to 
kiss  them  back.  But  they  came: 

"When  will  you  marry  me?" 

It  all  swayed  a  little.  And  with  marvellous  rapidity 
the  whole  position  started  up  before  her.  .  She  saw, 
with  preternatural  insight,  into  its  nooks  and  corners. 
Something  he  had  said  one  day,  when  they  were  talk- 
ing of  the  Church  view  of  marriage  and  divorce, 
lighted  all  up.  So  he  had  really  never  known  about 
her!  At  this  moment  of  utter  sickness,  she  was 
saved  from  fainting  by  her  sense  of  humour — her 
cynicism.  Not  content  to  let  her  be,  people's 
tongues  had  divorced  her;  he  had  believed  them! 
And  the  crown  of  irony  was  that  he  should  want  to 
marry  her,  when  she  felt  so  utterly,  so  sacredly  his, 
to  do  what  he  liked  with  sans  forms  or  ceremonies. 
A  surge  of  bitter  feeling  against  the  man  who  stood 
between  her  and  Miltoun  almost  made  her  cry  out. 
That  man  had  captured  her  before  she  knew  the 
world  or  her  own  soul,  and  she  was  tied  to  him,  till 
by  some  beneficent  chance  he  drew  his  last  breath 
— when  her  hair  was  grey,  and  her  eyes  had  no  love 
light,  and  her  cheeks  no  longer  grew  pale  when  they 
were  kissed;  when  twilight  had  fallen,  and  the 
flowers,  and  bees  no  longer  cared  for  her. 

It  was  that  feeling,  the  sudden  revolt  of  the  desper- 
ate prisoner,  which  steeled  her  to  put  out  her  hand, 
take  up  the  paper,  and  give  it  to  Miltoun. 


134  THE  PATRICIAN 

When  he  had  read  the  little  paragraph,  there  fol- 
lowed one  of  those  eternities  which  last  perhaps  two 
minutes. 

He  said,  then: 

"It's  true,  I  suppose?"  And,  at  her  silence, 
added:  "I  am  sorry." 

This  queer  dry  saying  was  so  much  more  terrible 
than  any  outcry,  that  she  remained,  deprived  even 
of  the  power  of  breathing,  with  her  eyes  still  fixed 
on  Miltoun's  face. 

The  smile  of  the  old  Cardinal  had  come  up  there, 
and  was  to  her  like  a  living  accusation.  It  seemed 
strange  that  the  hum  of  the  bees  and  flies  and  the 
gentle  swishing  of  the  lime-tree  should  still  go  on 
outside,  insisting  that  there  was  a  world  moving  and 
breathing  apart  from  her,  and  careless  of  her  misery. 
Then  some  of  her  courage  came  back,  and  with  it 
her  woman's  mute  power.  It  came  haunting  about 
her  face,  perfectly  still,  about  her  lips,  sensitive  and 
drawn,  about  her  eyes,  dark,  almost  mutinous  under 
their  arched  brows.  She  stood,  drawing  him  with 
silence  and  beauty. 

At  last  he  spoke: 

"I  have  made  a  foolish  mistake,  it  seems.  I  be- 
lieved you  were  free." 

Her  lips  just  moved  for  the  words  to  pass:  "I 
thought  you  knew.  I  never  dreamed  you  would 
want  to  marry  me." 

It  seemed  to  her  natural  that  he  should  be  think- 
ing only  of  himself,  but  with  the  subtlest  defensive 
instinct,  she  put  forward  her  own  tragedy: 


THE  PATRICIAN  135 

"I  suppose  I  had  got  too  used  to  knowing  I  was 
dead." 

"Is  there  no  release?" 

"None.  We  have  neither  of  us  done  wrong;  be- 
sides with  him,  marriage  is — for  ever." 

"My  God!" 

She  had  broken  his  smile,  which  had  been  cruel 
without  meaning  to  be  cruel;  and  with  a  smile  of 
her  own  that  was  cruel  too,  she  said: 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  believed  in  release  either." 

Then,  as  though  she  had  stabbed  herself  in  stab- 
bing him,  her  face  quivered. 

He  looked  at  her  now,  conscious  at  last  that  she 
was  suffering.  And  she  felt  that  he  was  holding 
himself  in  with  all  his  might  from  taking  her  again 
into  his  arms.  Seeing  this,  the  warmth  crept  back 
to  her  lips,  and  a  little  light  into  her  eyes,  which  she 
kept  hidden  from  him.  Though  she  stood  so  proudly 
still,  some  wistful  force  was  coming  from  her,  as 
from  a  magnet,  and  Miltoun's  hands  and  arms  and 
face  twitched  as  though  palsied.  This  struggle, 
dumb  and  pitiful,  seemed  never  to  be  coming  to  an 
end  in  the  little  white  room,  darkened  by  the  thatch 
of  the  verandah,  and  sweet  with  the  scent  of  pinks 
and  of  a  wood  fire  just  lighted  somewhere  out  at  the 
back.  Then,  without  a  word,  he  turned  and  went 
out.  She  heard  the  wicket  gate  swing  to.  He  was 
gone. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LORD  DENNIS  was  fly-fishing — the  weather  just 
too  bright  to  allow  the  little  trout  of  that  shallow, 
never  silent  stream  to  embrace  with  avidity  the  small 
enticements  which  he  threw  in  their  direction. 
Nevertheless  he  continued  to  invite  them,  exploring 
every  nook  of  their  watery  pathway  with  his  soft- 
swishing  line.  In  a  rought  suit  and  battered  hat 
adorned  with  those  artificial  and  other  flies,  which 
infest  Harris  tweed,  he  crept  along  among  the  hazel 
bushes  and  thorn-trees,  perfectly  happy.  Like  an 
old  spaniel,  who  has  once  gloried  in  the  fetching  of 
hares,  rabbits,  and  all  manner  of  fowl,  and  is  now 
glad  if  you  will  but  throw  a  stick  for  him,  so  one, 
who  had  been  a  famous  fisher  before  the  Lord,  who 
had  harried  the  waters  of  Scotland  and  Norway, 
Florida  and  Iceland,  now  pursued  trout  no  bigger 
than  sardines.  The  glamour  of  a  thousand  memo- 
ries hallowed  the  hours  he  thus  spent  by  that  brown 
water.  He  fished  unhasting,  religious,  like  some 
good  Catholic  adding  one  more  to  the  row  of  beads 
already  told,  as  though  he  would  fish  himself,  gravely, 
without  complaint,  into  the  other  world.  With  each 
fish  caught  he  experienced  a  solemn  satisfaction. 

Though  he  would  have  liked  Barbara  with  him 
that  morning,  he  had  only  looked  at  her  once  after 

136 


THE  PATRICIAN  137 

breakfast  in  such  a  way  that  she  could  noi  see  him, 
and  with  a  dry  smile  gone  off  by  himself.  Down  by 
the  stream  it  was  dappled,  both  cool  and  warm, 
windless;  the  trees  met  over  the  river,  and  there  were 
many  stones,  forming  little  basins  which  held  up  the 
ripple,  so  that  the  casting  of  a  fly  required  much 
cunning.  This  long  dingle  ran  for  miles  through 
the  foot-growth  of  folding  hills.  It  was  beloved  of 
jays;  but  of  human  beings  there  were  none,  except 
a  chicken-farmer's  widow,  who  lived  in  a  house 
thatched  almost  to  the  ground,  and  made  her  liveli- 
hood by  directing  tourists,  with  such  cunning  that 
they  soon  came  back  to  her  for  tea. 

It  was  while  throwing  a  rather  longer  line  than 
usual  to  reach  a  little  dark  piece  of  crisp  water  that 
Lord  Dennis  heard  the  swishing  and  crackling  of 
someone  advancing  at  full  speed.  He  frowned 
slightly,  feeling  for  the  nerves  of  his  fishes,  whom  he 
did  not  wish  startled.  The  invader  was  Miltoun, 
hot,  pale,  dishevelled,  with  a  queer,  hunted  look  on 
his  face.  He  stopped  on  seeing  his  great-uncle,  and 
instantly  assumed  the  mask  of  his  smile. 

Lord  Dennis  was  not  the  man  to  see  what  was  not 
intended  for  him,  and  he  merely  said: 

"Well,  Eustace!"  as  he  might  have  spoken,  meet- 
ing his  nephew  in  the  hall  of  one  of  his  London 
Clubs. 

Miltoun,  no  less  polite,  murmured: 

"Hope  I  haven't  lost  you  anything." 

Lord  Dennis  shook  his  head,  and  laying  his  rod 
on  the  bank,  said: 


138  THE  PATRICIAN 

"Sit  down  and  have  a  chat,  old  fellow.  You  don't 
fish,  I  think?" 

He  had  not,  in  the  least,  missed  the  suffering  be- 
hind Miltoun's  mask;  his  eyes  were  still  good,  and 
there  was  a  little  matter  of  some  twenty  years'  suf- 
fering of  his  own  on  account  of  a  woman — 
ancient  history  now — which  had  left  him  quaintly 
sensitive,  for  an  old  man,  to  signs  of  suffering  in 
others. 

Miltoun  would  not  have  obeyed  that  invitation 
from  anyone  else,  but  there  was  something  about 
Lord  Dennis  which  people  did  not  resist;  his  power 
lay  in  a  dry  ironic  suavity  which  could  not  but  per- 
suade people  that  impoliteness  was  altogether  too 
new  and  raw  a  thing  to  be  indulged  in. 

The  two  sat  side  by  side  on  the  roots  of  trees.  At 
first  they  talked  a  little  of  birds,  and  then  were  dumb, 
so  dumb  that  the  invisible  creatures  of  the  woods 
consulted  together  audibly.  Lord  Dennis  broke  that 
silence. 

"This  place,"  he  said,  "always  reminds  me  of 
Mark  Twain's  writings — can't  tell  why,  unless  it's 
the  evergreenness.  I  like  the  evergreen  philosophers, 
Twain  and  Meredith.  There's  no  salvation  except 
through  courage,  though  I  never  could  stomach  the 
1  strong  man' — captain  of  his  soul,  Henley  and  Nietz- 
sche and  that  sort — goes  against  the  grain  with  me. 
What  do  you  say,  Eustace?" 

"They  meant  well,"  answered  Miltoun,  "but  they 
protested  too  much." 

Lord  Dennis  moved  his  head  in  assent. 


THE  PATRICIAN  139 

"To  be  captain  of  your  soul ! "  continued  Miltoun  in 
a  bitter  voice;  "it's  a  pretty  phrase!" 

"Pretty  enough,"  murmured  Lord  Dennis. 

Miltoun  looked  at  him. 

"And  suitable  to  you,"  he  said. 

"No,  my  dear,"  Lord  Dennis  answered  dryly,  "a 
long  way  off  that,  thank  God!" 

His  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  the  place  where  a 
large  trout  had  risen  in  the  stillest  toffee-coloured 
pool.  He  knew  that  fellow,  a  half-pounder  at  least, 
and  his  thoughts  began  flighting  round  the  top  of 
his  head,  hovering  over  the  various  merits  of  the 
flies.  His  fingers  itched  too,  but  he  made  no  move- 
ment, and  the  ash-tree  under  which  he  sat  let  its 
leaves  tremble,  as  though  in  sympathy. 

"See  that  hawk?"  said  Miltoun. 

At  a  height  more  than  level  with  the  tops  of  the 
hills  a  buzzard  hawk  was  stationary  in  the  blue 
directly  over  them.  Inspired  by  curiosity  at  their 
stillness,  he  was  looking  down  to  see  whether  they 
were  edible;  the  upcurved  ends  of  his  great  wings 
flirted  just  once  to  show  that  he  was  part  of  the 
living  glory  of  the  air — a  symbol  of  freedom  to  men 
and  fishes. 

Lord  Dennis  looked  at  his  great-nephew.  The 
boy — for  what  else  was  thirty  to  seventy-six? — was 
taking  it  hard,  whatever  it  might  be,  taking  it  very 
hard!  He  was  that  sort — ran  till  he  dropped.  The 
worst  kind  to  help — the  sort  that  made  for  trouble — 
that  let  things  gnaw  at  them!  And  there  flashed 
before  the  old  man's  mind  the  image  of  Prometheus 


140  THE  PATRICIAN 

devoured  by  the  eagle.  It  was  his  favourite  tragedy, 
which  he  still  read  periodically,  in  the  Greek,  help- 
ing himself  now  and  then  out  of  his  old  lexicon  to  the 
meaning  of  some  word  which  had  flown  to  Erebus. 
Yes,  Eustace  was  a  fellow  for  the  heights  and  depths! 

He  said  quietly: 

"You  don't  care  to  talk  about  it,  I  suppose?" 

Miltoun  shook  his  head,  and  again  there  was 
silence. 

The  buzzard  hawk  having  seen  them  move,  quiv- 
ered his  wings  like  a  moth's,  and  deserted  that  plane 
of  air.  A  robin  from  the  dappled  warmth  of  a  mossy 
stone,  was  regarding  them  instead.  There  was  an- 
other splash  in  the  pool. 

Lord  Dennis  said  gently: 

"That  fellow's  risen  twice;  I  believe  he'd  take  a 
'Wistman's  treasure.'"  Extracting  from  his  hat  its 
latest  fly,  and  binding  it  on,  he  began  softly  to  swish 
his  line. 

"I  shall  have  him  yet!"  he  muttered.  But  Mil- 
toun had  stolen  away.  .  .  . 

The  further  piece  of  information  about  Mrs.  Noel, 
already  known  by  Barbara,  and  diffused  by  the 
Bucklandbury  News,  had  not  become  common 
knowledge  at  the  Court  till  after  Lord  Dennis  had 
started  out  to  fish.  In  combination  with  the  report 
that  Miltoun  had  arrived  and  gone  out  without 
breakfast,  it  had  been  received  with  mingled  feel- 
ings. Bertie,  Harbinger,  and  Shropton,  in  a  short 
conclave,  after  agreeing  that  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  election  it  was  perhaps  better  than  if  she  had 


THE  PATRICIAN  141 

been  a  divorc&e,  were  still  inclined  to  the  belief  that 
no  time  was  to  be  lost — in  doing  what,  however,  they 
were  unable  to  determine.  Apart  from  the  impossi- 
bility of  knowing  how  a  fellow  like  Miltoun  would 
take  the  matter,  they  were  faced  with  the  devilish 
subtlety  of  all  situations  to  which  the  proverb  'Least 
said,  soonest  mended'  applies.  They  were  in  the 
presence  of  that  awe-inspiring  thing,  the  power  of 
scandal.  Simple  statements  of  simple  facts,  without 
moral  drawn  (to  which  no  legal  exception  could  be 
taken)  laid  before  the  public  as  pieces  of  interest- 
ing information,  or  at  the  worst  exposed  in  perfect 
good  faith,  lest  the  public  should  blindly  elect  as 
their  representative  one  whose  private  life  might 
not  stand  the  inspection  of  daylight — what  could 
be  more  justifiable!  And  yet  Miltoun's  supporters 
knew  that  this  simple  statement  of  where  he  spent 
his  evenings  had  a  poisonous  potency,  through  its 
power  of  stimulating  that  side  of  the  human  imagi- 
nation the  most  easily  excited.  They  recognized 
only  too  well,  how  strong  was  a  certain  primitive 
desire,  especially  in  rural  districts,  by  yielding  to 
which  the  world  was  made  to  go,  and  how  remark- 
ably hard  it  was  not  to  yield  to  it,  and  how  interesting 
and  exciting  to  see  or  hear  of  others  yielding  to  it, 
and  how  (though  here,  of  course,  men  might  differ 
secretly)  reprehensible  of  them  to  do  so!  They 
recognized,  too  well,  how  a  certain  kind  of  conscience 
would  appreciate  this  rumour;  and  how  the  puritans 
would  lick  their  lengthened  chops.  They  knew,  too, 
how  irresistible  to  people  of  any  imagination  at  all, 


142  THE  PATRICIAN 

was  the  mere  combination  of  a  member  of  a  class, 
traditionally  supposed  to  be  inclined  to  having  what 
it  wanted,  with  a  lady  who  lived  alone!  As  Har- 
binger said:  It  was  really  devilish  awkward!  For, 
to  take  any  notice  of  it  would  be  to  make  more  people 
than  ever  believe  it  true.  And  yet,  that  it  was  work- 
ing mischief,  they  felt  by  the  secret  voice  in  their  own 
souls,  telling  them  that  they  would  have  believed  it 
if  they  had  not  known  better.  They  hung  about, 
waiting  for  Miltoun  to  come  in. 

The  news  was  received  by  Lady  Valleys  with  a 
sigh  of  intense  relief,  and  the  remark  that  it  was 
probably  another  lie.  When  Barbara  confirmed  it, 
she  only  said:  "Poor  Eustace!"  and  at  once  wrote 
off  to  her  husband  to  say  that  'Anonyma'  was  still 
married,  so  that  the  worst  fortunately  could  not 
happen. 

Miltoun  came  in  to  lunch,  but  from  his  face  and 
manner  nothing  could  be  guessed.  He  was  a  thought 
more  talkative  than  usual,  and  spoke  of  Brabrook's 
speech — some  of  which  he  had  heard.  He  looked 
at  Courtier  meaningly,  and  after  lunch  said  to  him: 

"Will  you  come  round  to  my  den?" 

In  that  room,  the  old  withdrawing-room  of  the 
Elizabethan  wing — where  once  had  been  the  em- 
broideries, tapestries,  and  missals  of  beruffled  dames 
— were  now  books,  pamphlets,  oak-panels,  pipes, 
fencing  gear,  and  along  one  wall  a  collection  of 
Red  Indian  weapons  and  ornaments  brought  back 
by  Miltoun  from  the  United  States.  High  on  the 
wall  above  these  reigned  the  bronze  death-mask  of 


THE  PATRICIAN  143 

a  famous  Apache  Chief,  cast  from  a  plaster  taken  of 
the  face  by  a  professor  of  Yale  College,  who  had  de- 
clared it  to  be  a  perfect  specimen  of  the  vanishing 
race.  That  visage,  which  had  a  certain  weird  re- 
semblance to  Dante's,  presided  over  the  room  with 
cruel,  tragic  stoicism.  No  one  could  look  on  it 
without  feeling  that,  there,  the  human  will  had  been 
pushed  to  its  farthest  limits  of  endurance. 

Seeing  it  for  the  first  time,  Courtier  said: 

"Fine  thing — that!    Only  wants  a  soul." 

Miltoun  nodded. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said. 

Courtier  sat  down. 

There  followed  one  of  those  silences  in  which  men 
— whose  spirits,  though  different,  have  a  certain  big- 
ness in  common — can  say  so  much  to  one  another. 

At  last  Miltoun  spoke: 

"I  have  been  living  in  the  clouds,  it  seems.  You 
are  her  oldest  friend.  The  immediate  question  is 
how  to  make  it  easiest  for  her  in  face  of  this  miser- 
able rumour!" 

Not  even  Courtier  himself  could  have  put  such 
whip-lash  sting  into  the  word  'miserable.' 

He  answered: 

"Oh!  take  no  notice  of  that.  Let  them  stew  in 
their  own  juice.  She  won't  care." 

Miltoun  listened,  not  moving  a  muscle  of  his  face. 

"Your  friends  here,"  went  on  Courtier  with  a 
touch  of  contempt,  "seem  in  a  flutter.  Don't  let 
them  do  anything,  don't  let  them  say  a  word.  Treat 
the  thing  as  it  deserves  to  be  treated.  It'll  die." 


144  THE  PATRICIAN 

Miltoun,  however,  smiled. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  he  said,  "that  the  consequences 
will  be  as  you  think,  but  I  shall  do  as  you  say." 

"As  for  your  candidature,  any  man  with  a  spark  of 
generosity  in  his  soul  will  rally  to  you  because  of  it." 

"Possibly,"  said  Miltoun.  "It  will  lose  me  the 
election,  for  all  that." 

Then,  dimly  conscious  that  their  last  words  had 
revealed  the  difference  of  their  temperaments  and 
creeds,  they  stared  at  one  another. 

"No,"  said  Courtier,  "I  never  will  believe  that 
people  can  be  so  mean!" 

"Until  they  are." 

"Anyway,  though  we  get  at  it  in  different  ways, 
we  agree." 

Miltoun  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  and 
shading  his  face  with  his  hand,  said: 

"You  know  her  story.  Is  there  any  way  out  of 
that,  for  her?" 

On  Courtier's  face  was  the  look  which  so  often 
came  when  he  was  speaking  for  one  of  his  lost  causes 
— as  if  the  fumes  from  a  fire  in  his  heart  had  mounted 
to  his  head. 

"Only  the  way,"  he  answered  calmly,  "that  I 
should  take  if  I  were  you." 

"And  that?" 

"The  law  into  your  own  hands." 

Miltoun  unshaded  his  face.  His  gaze  seemed  to 
have  to  travel  from  an  immense  distance  before  it 
reached  Courtier.  He  answered: 

"Yes,  I  thought  you  would  say  that." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHEN  everything,  that  night,  was  quiet,  Barbara, 
her  hair  hanging  loose  outside  her  dressing  gown, 
slipped  from  her  room  into  the  dim  corridor.  With 
bare  feet  thrust  into  fur-crowned  slippers  which 
made  no  noise,  she  stole  along  looking  at  door  after 
door.  Through  a  long  Gothic  window,  uncurtained, 
the  mild  moonlight  was  coming.  She  stopped  just 
where  that  moonlight  fell,  and  tapped.  There  came 
no  answer.  She  opened  the  door  a  little  way,  and 
said: 

"Are  you  asleep,  Eusty?" 

There  still  came  no  answer,  and  she  went  in. 

The  curtains  were  drawn,  but  a  chink  of  moon- 
light peering  through  fell  on  the  bed.  This  was 
empty.  Barbara  stood  uncertain,  listening.  In  the 
heart  of  that  darkness  there  seemed  to  be,  not  sound, 
but,  as  it  were,  the  muffled  soul  of  sound,  a  sort  of 
strange  vibration,  like  that  of  a  flame  noiselessly 
licking  the  air.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart,  which 
beat  as  though  it  would  leap  through  the  thin  silk 
covering.  From  what  corner  of  the  room  was  that 
mute  tremor  coming?  Stealing  to  the  window,  she 
parted  the  curtains,  and  stared  back  into  the  shadows. 
There,  on  the  far  side,  lying  on  the  floor  with  his 
arms  pressed  tightly  round  his  head  and  his  face  to 

MS 


146  THE  PATRICIAN 

the  wall,  was  Miltoun.  Barbara  let  fall  the  curtains, 
and  stood  breathless,  with  such  a  queer  sensation  in 
her  breast  as  she  had  never  felt;  a  sense  of  some- 
thing outraged — of  scarred  pride.  It  was  gone  at 
once,  in  a  rush  of  pity.  She  stepped  forward  quickly 
in  the  darkness,  was  visited  by  fear,  and  stopped. 
He  had  seemed  absolutely  himself  all  the  evening. 
A  little  more  talkative,  perhaps,  a  little  more  caustic 
than  usual.  And  now  to  find  him  like  this!  There 
was  no  great  share  of  reverence  in  Barbara,  but  what 
little  she  possessed  had  always  been  kept  for  her 
eldest  brother.  He  had  impressed  her,  from  a  child, 
with  his  aloofness,  and  she  had  been  proud  of  kissing 
him  because  he  never  seemed  to  let  anybody  else  do 
so.  Those  caresses,  no  doubt,  had  the  savour  of 
conquest;  his  face  had  been  the  undiscovered  land 
for  her  lips.  She  loved  him  as  one  loves  that  which 
ministers  to  one's  pride;  had  for  him,  too,  a  touch 
of  motherly  protection,  as  for  a  doll  that  does  not 
get  on  too  well  with  the  other  dolls;  and  withal  a 
little  unaccustomed  awe. 

Dared  she  now  plunge  in  on  this  private  agony? 
Could  she  have  borne  that  anyone  should  see  her- 
self thus  prostrate  ?  He  had  not  heard  her,  and  she 
tried  to  regain  the  door.  But  a  board  creaked;  she 
heard  him  move,  and  flinging  away  her  fears,  said: 
"It's  me!  Babs!"  and  dropped  on  her  knees  beside 
him.  If  it  had  not  been  so  pitch  dark  she  could 
never  have  done  that.  She  tried  at  once  to  take  his 
head  into  her  arms,  but  could  not  see  it,  and  suc- 
ceeded indifferently.  She  could  but  stroke  his  arm 


THE  PATRICIAN  147 

continually,  wondering  whether  he  would  hate  her 
ever  afterwards,  and  blessing  the  darkness,  which 
made  it  all  seem  as  though  it  were  not  happening, 
yet  so  much  more  poignant  than  if  it  had  happened. 
Suddenly  she  felt  him  slip  away  from  her,  and  getting 
up,  stole  out.  After  the  darkness  of  that  room,  the 
corridor  seemed  full  of  grey  filmy  light,  as  though 
dream-spiders  had  joined  the  walls  with  their  cob- 
webs, in  which  innumerable  white  moths,  so  tiny 
that  they  could  not  be  seen,  were  struggling.  Small 
eerie  noises  crept  about.  A  sudden  frightened  long- 
ing for  warmth,  and  light,  and  colour  came  to  Bar- 
bara. She  fled  back  to  her  room.  But  she  could  not 
sleep.  That  terrible  mute  unseen  vibration  in  the 
unlighted  room — like  the  noiseless  licking  of  a  flame 
at  bland  air;  the  touch  of  Miltoun's  hand,  hot  as 
fire  against  her  cheek  and  neck ;  the  whole  tremulous 
dark  episode,  possessed  her  through  and  through. 
Thus  had  the  wayward  force  of  Love  chosen  to 
manifest  itself  to  her  in  all  its  wistful  violence.  At 
this  first  sight  of  the  red  flower  of  passion  her  cheeks 
burned;  up  and  down  her,  between  the  cool  sheets, 
little  hot  cruel  shivers  ran;  she  lay,  wide-eyed,  star- 
ing at  the  ceiling.  She  thought  of  the  woman  whom 
he  so  loved,  and  wondered  if  she  too  were  lying  sleep- 
less, flung  down  on  a  bare  floor,  trying  to  cool  her 
forehead  and  lips  against  a  cold  wall. 

Not  for  hours  did  she  fall  asleep,  and  then  dreamed 
of  running  desperately  through  fields  full  of  tall 
spiky  asphodel-like  flowers,  and  behind  her  was  run- 
ning herself. 


I4»  THE  PATRICIAN 

In  the  morning  she  dreaded  to  go  down.  Could 
she  meet  Miltoun  now  that  she  knew  of  the  passion 
in  him,  and  he  knew  that  she  knew  it  ?  She  had  her 
breakfast  brought  upstairs.  Before  she  had  finished 
Miltoun  himself  came  in.  He  looked  more  than 
usually  self-contained,  not  to  say  ironic,  and  only 
remarked:  "If  you're  going  to  ride  you  might  take 
this  note  for  me  over  to  old  Haliday  at  Wippincott." 
By  his  coming  she  knew  that  he  was  saying  all  he 
ever  meant  to  say  about  that  dark  incident.  And 
sympathizing  completely  with  a  reticence  which  she 
herself  felt  to  be  the  only  possible  way  out  for  both 
of  them,  Barbara  looked  at  him  gratefully,  took  the 
note  and  said:  "All  right!" 

Then,  after  glancing  once  or  twice  round  the  room, 
Miltoun  went  away. 

He  left  her  restless,  divested  of  the  cloak  'of 
course,'  in  a  strange  mood  of  questioning,  ready  as 
it  were  for  the  sight  of  the  magpie  wings  of  Life,  and 
to  hear  their  quick  flutterings.  Talk  jarred  on  her 
that  morning,  with  its  sameness  and  attachment  to 
the  facts  of  the  present  and  the  future,  its  essential 
concern  with  the  world  as  it  was — she  avoided  all 
companionship  on  her  ride.  She  wanted  to  be  told 
of  things  that  were  not,  yet  might  be,  to  peep  behind 
the  curtain,  and  see  the  very  spirit  of  mortal  happen- 
ings escaped  from  prison.  And  this  was  all  so  un- 
usual with  Barbara,  whose  body  was  too  perfect,  too 
sanely  governed  by  the  flow  of  her  blood  not  to  revel 
in  the  moment  and  the  things  thereof.  She  knew  it 
was  unusual.  After  her  ride  she  avoided  lunch,  and 


THE  PATRICIAN  149 

walked  out  into  the  lanes.  But  about  two  o'clock, 
feeling  very  hungry,  she  went  into  a  farmhouse,  and 
asked  for  milk.  There,  in  the  kitchen,  like  young 
jackdaws  in  a  row  with  their  mouths  a  little  open, 
were  the  three  farm  boys,  seated  on  a  bench  gripped 
to  the  alcove  of  the  great  fire-way,  munching  bread 
and  cheese.  Above  their  heads  a  gun  was  hung, 
trigger  upwards,  and  two  hams  were  mellowing  in 
the  smoke.  At  the  feet  of  a  black-haired  girl,  who 
was  slicing  onions,  lay  a  sheep  dog  of  tremendous 
age,  with  nose  stretched  out  on  paws,  and  in  his 
little  blue  eyes  a  gleam  of  approaching  immortality. 
They  all  stared  at  Barbara.  And  one  of  the  boys, 
whose  face  had  the  delightful  look  of  him  who  loses 
all  sense  of  other  things  in  what  he  is  seeing  at  the 
moment,  smiled,  and  continued  smiling,  with  sheer 
pleasure.  Barbara  drank  her  milk,  and  wandered 
out  again;  passing  through  a  gate  at  the  bottom  of 
a  steep,  rocky  tor,  she  sat  down  on  a  sun  warmed 
stone.  The  sunlight  fell  greedily  on  her  here,  like 
an  invisible  swift  hand  touching  her  all  over,  and 
specially  caressing  her  throat  and  face.  A  very 
gentle  wind,  which  dived  over  the  tor  tops  into  the 
young  fern,  stole  down  at  her,  spiced  with  the  fern 
sap.  All  was  warmth  and  peace,  and  only  the 
cuckoos  on  the  far  thorn  trees — as  though  stationed 
by  the  Wistful  Master  himself — were  there  to  dis- 
turb her  heart.  But  all  the  sweetness  and  piping  of 
the  day  did  not  soothe  her.  In  truth,  she  could  not 
have  said  what  was  the  matter,  except  that  she  felt 
so  discontented,  and  as  it  were  empty  of  all  but  a 


150  THE  PATRICIAN 

sort  of  aching  impatience  with — what  exactly  she 
could  not  say.  She  had  that  rather  dreadful  feeling 
of  something  slipping  by  which  she  could  not  catch. 
It  was  so  new  to  her  to  feel  like  that — for  no  girl  was 
less  given  to  moods  and  repinings.  And  all  the 
time  a  sort  of  contempt  for  this  soft  and  almost  sen- 
timental feeling  made  her  tighten  her  lips  and  frown. 
She  felt  distrustful  and  sarcastic  towards  a  mood  so 
utterly  subversive  of  that  fetich  'Hardness,'  to  the 
unconscious  worship  of  which  she  had  been  brought 
up.  To  stand  no  sentiment  or  nonsense  either  in 
herself  or  others  was  the  first  article  of  faith;  not 
to  slop-over  anywhere.  So  that  to  feel  as  she  did 
was  almost  horrible  to  Barbara.  Yet  she  could  not 
get  rid  of  the  sensation.  With  sudden  recklessness 
she  tried  giving  herself  up  to  it  entirely.  Undoing 
the  scarf  at  her  throat,  she  let  the  air  play  on  her 
bared  neck,  and  stretched  out  her  arms  as  if  to  hug 
the  wind  to  her;  then,  with  a  sigh,  she  got  up,  and 
walked  on.  And  now  she  began  thinking  of  'An- 
onyma';  turning  her  position  over  and  over.  The 
idea  that  anyone  young  and  beautiful  should  thus 
be  clipped  off  in  her  life,  roused  her  impatient  in- 
dignation. Let  them  try  it  with  her!  They  would 
soon  see!  For  all  her  cultivated  'hardness,'  Barbara 
really  hated  anything  to  suffer.  It  seemed  to  her 
unnatural.  She  never  went  to  that  hospital  where 
Lady  Valleys  had  a  ward,  nor  to  their  summer  camp 
for  crippled  children,  nor  to  help  in  their  annual 
concert  for  sweated  workers,  without  a  feeling  of 
such  vehement  pity  that  it  was  like  being  seized  by 


THE  PATRICIAN  151 

the  throat.  Once,  when  she  had  been  singing  to 
them,  the  rows  of  wan,  pinched  faces  below  had 
been  too  much  for  her;  she  had  broken  down,  for- 
gotten her  words,  lost  memory  of  the  tune,  and  just 
ended  her  performance  with  a  smile,  worth  more 
perhaps  to  her  audience  than  those  lost  verses. 
She  never  came  away  from  such  sights  and  places 
without  a  feeling  of  revolt  amounting  almost  to  rage; 
and  she  only  continued  to  go  because  she  dimly 
knew  that  it  was  expected  of  her  not  to  turn  her 
back  on  such  things,  in  her  section  of  Society. 

But  it  was  not  this  feeling  which  made  her  stop 
before  Mrs.  Noel's  cottage;  nor  was  it  curiosity. 
It  was  a  quite  simple  desire  to  squeeze  her  hand. 

'Anonyma'  seemed  taking  her  trouble  as  only 
those  women  who  are  no  good  at  self-assertion  can 
take  things — doing  exactly  as  she  would  have  done 
if  nothing  had  happened;  a  little  paler  than  usual, 
with  lips  pressed  rather  tightly  together. 

They  neither  of  them  spoke  at  first,  but  stood 
looking,  not  at  each  other's  faces,  but  at  each  other's 
breasts.  At  last  Barbara  stepped  forward  impul- 
sively and  kissed  her. 

After  that,  like  two  children  who  kiss  first,  and 
then  make  acquaintance,  they  stood  apart,  silent, 
faintly  smiling.  It  had  been  given  and  returned  in 
real  sweetness  and  comradeship,  that  kiss,  for  a  sign 
of  womanhood  making  face  against  the  world;  but 
now  that  it  was  over,  both  felt  a  little  awkward. 
Would  that  kiss  have  been  given  if  Fate  had  been 
auspicious  ?  Was  it  not  proof  of  misery  ?  So  Mrs. 


152  THE  PATRICIAN 

Noel's  smile  seemed  saying,  and  Barbara's  smile  un- 
willingly admitted.  Perceiving  that  if  they  talked 
it  could  only  be  about  the  most  ordinary  things,  they 
began  speaking  of  music,  flowers,  and  the  queerness 
of  bees'  legs.  But  all  the  time,  Barbara,  though 
seemingly  unconscious,  was  noting  with  her  smiling 
eyes,  the  tiny  movements,  by  which  one  woman  can 
tell  what  is  passing  in  another.  She  saw  a  little 
quiver  tighten  the  corner  of  the  lips,  the  eyes  sud- 
denly grow  large  and  dark,  the  thin  blouse  desper- 
ately rise  and  fall.  And  her  fancy,  quickened  by 
last  night's  memory,  saw  this  woman  giving  herself 
up  to  the  memory  of  love  in  her  thoughts.  At  this 
sight  she  felt  a  little  of  that  impatience  which  the 
conquering  feel  for  the  passive,  and  perhaps  just  a 
touch  of  jealousy. 

Whatever  Miltoun  decided,  that  would  this  woman 
accept!  Such  resignation,  while  it  simplified  things, 
offended  the  part  of  Barbara  which  rebelled  against 
all  inaction,  all  dictation,  even  from  her  favourite 
brother.  She  said  suddenly: 

"Are  you  going  to  do  nothing?  Aren't  you  going 
to  try  and  free  yourself?  If  I  were  in  your  position, 
I  would  never  rest  till  I'd  made  them  free  me." 

But  Mrs.  Noel  did  not  answer;  and  sweeping  her 
glance  from  that  crown  of  soft  dark  hair,  down  the 
soft  white  figure,  to  the  very  feet,  Barbara  cried: 

"I  believe  you  are  a  fatalist." 

Soon  after  that,  not  knowing  what  more  to  say, 
she  went  away.  But  walking  home  across  the  fields, 
where  full  summer  was  swinging  on  the  delicious  air 


THE  PATRICIAN  153 

and  there  was  now  no  bull  but  only  red  cows  to  crop 
short  the  'milk-maids'  and  buttercups,  she  suffered 
from  this  strange  revelation  of  the  strength  cf  soft- 
ness and  passivity — as  though  she  had  seen  in  the 
white  figure  of  'Anonyma,'  and  heard  in  her  voice 
something  from  beyond,  symbolic,  inconceivable,  yet 
real. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LORD  VALLEYS,  relieved  from  official  pressure  by 
subsidence  of  the  war  scare,  had  returned  for  a  long 
week-end.  To  say  that  he  had  been  intensely  re- 
lieved by  the  news  that  Mrs.  Noel  was  not  free, 
would  be  to  put  it  mildly.  Though  not  old-fashioned, 
like  his  mother-in-law,  in  regard  to  the  mixing  of  the 
castes,  prepared  to  admit  that  exclusiveness  was  out 
of  date,  to  pass  over  with  a  shrug  and  a  laugh  those 
numerous  alliances  by  which  his  order  were  renew- 
ing the  sinews  of  war,  and  indeed  in  his  capacity  of 
an  expert,  often  pointing  out  the  dangers  of  too  much 
in-breeding — yet  he  had  a  peculiar  personal  feeling 
about  his  own  family,  and  was  perhaps  a  little  extra 
sensitive  because  of  Agatha;  for  Shropton,  though  a 
good  fellow,  and  extremely  wealthy,  was  only  a  third 
baronet,  and  had  originally  been  made  of  iron.  It 
was  inadvisable  to  go  outside  the  inner  circle  where 
there  was  no  material  necessity  for  so  doing.  He 
had  not  done  it  himself.  Moreover  there  was  a 
sentiment  about  these  things! 

On  the  morning  after  his  arrival,  visiting  the 
kennels  before  breakfast,  he  stood  chatting  with  his 
head  man,  and  caressing  the  wet  noses  of  his  two 
favourite  pointers,  with  something  of  the  feeling  of 
a  boy  let  out  of  school.  Those  pleasant  creatures, 

154 


THE  PATRICIAN  155 

cowering  and  quivering  with  pride  against  his  legs, 
and  turning  up  at  him  their  yellow  Chinese  eyes, 
gave  him  that  sense  of  warmth  and  comfort  which 
visits  men  in  the  presence  of  their  hobbies.  With 
this  particular  pair,  inbred  to  the  uttermost,  he  had 
successfully  surmounted  a  great  risk.  It  was  now 
touch  and  go  whether  he  dared  venture  on  one  more 
cross  to  the  original  strain,  in  the  hope  of  eliminating 
the  last  clinging  of  liver  colour.  It  was  a  gamble — 
and  it  was  just  that  which  rendered  it  so  vastly 
interesting. 

A  small  voice  diverted  his  attention;  he  looked 
round  and  saw  little  Ann.  She  had  been  in  bed 
when  he  arrived  the  night  before,  and  he  was  there- 
fore the  newest  thing  about. 

She  carried  in  her  arms  a  guinea-pig,  and  began 
at  once: 

"Grandpapa,  Granny  wants  you.  She's  on  the 
terrace;  she's  talking  to  Mr.  Courtier.  I  like  him — 
he's  a  kind  man.  If  I  put  my  guinea-pig  down,  will 
they  bite  it?  Poor  darling — they  shan't  1  Isn't  it  a 
darling!" 

Lord  Valleys,  twirling  his  moustache,  regarded 
the  guinea-pig  without  favour;  he  had  rather  a  dis- 
like for  all  senseless  kinds  of  beasts. 

Pressing  the  guinea-pig  between  her  hands,  as  it 
might  be  a  concertina,  little  Ann  jigged  it  gently 
above  the  pointers,  who,  wrinkling  horribly  their 
long  noses,  gazed  upwards,  fascinated. 

"  Poor  darlings,  they  want  it — don't  they  ?  Grand- 
papa!" 


156  THE  PATRICIAN 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  think  the  next  puppies  will  be  spotted 
quite  all  over?" 

Continuing  to  twirl  his  moustache,  Lord  Valleys 
answered : 

"I  think  it  is  not  improbable,  Ann." 

"Why  do  you  like  them  spotted  like  that?  Oh! 
they're  kissing  Sambo — I  must  go!" 

Lord  Valleys  followed  her,  his  eyebrows  a  little 
raised. 

As  he  approached  the  terrace  his  wife  came 
towards  him.  Her  colour  was  deeper  than  usual, 
and  she  had  the  look,  higher  and  more  resolute, 
peculiar  to  her  when  she  had  been  opposed.  In 
truth  she  had  just  been  through  a  passage  of  arms 
with  Courtier,  who,  as  the  first  revealer  of  Mrs. 
Noel's  situation,  had  become  entitled  to  a  certain 
confidence  on  this  subject.  It  had  arisen  from  what 
she  had  intended  as  a  perfectly  natural  and  not  un- 
kind remark,  to  the  effect  that  all  the  trouble  had 
come  from  Mrs.  Noel  not  having  made  her  position 
clear  to  Miltoun  from  the  first. 

He  had  at  once  grown  very  red. 

"It's  easy,  Lady  Valleys,  for  those  who  have  never 
been  in  the  position  of  a  lonely  woman,  to  blame 
her." 

Unaccustomed  to  be  withstood,  she  had  looked  at 
him  intently: 

"I  am  the  last  person  to  be  hard  on  a  woman  for 
conventional  reasons.  But  I  think  it  showed  lack 
of  character." 


THE  PATRICIAN  157 

Courtier's  reply  had  been  almost  rude. 

"Plants  are  not  equally  robust,  Lady  Valleys. 
Some,  as  we  know,  are  actually  sensitive." 

She  had  retorted  with  decision: 

"If  you  like  to  so  dignify  the  simpler  word  'weak.'  " 

He  had  become  very  rigid  at  that,  biting  deeply 
into  his  moustache. 

"What  crimes  are  not  committed  under  the  sanc- 
tity of  that  creed  'survival  of  the  fittest,'  which  suits 
the  book  of  all  you  fortunate  people  so  well!" 

Priding  herself  on  her  restraint,  Lady  Valleys  an- 
swered : 

"Ah!  we  must  talk  that  out.  On  the  face  of  them, 
your  words  sound  a  little  unphilosophic,  don't 
they?" 

He  had  looked  straight  at  her  with  a  queer,  un- 
pleasant smile;  and  she  had  felt  at  once  disturbed 
and  angry.  It  was  all  very  well  to  pet  and  even  to 
admire  these  original  sort  of  men,  but  there  were 
limits.  Remembering,  however,  that  he  was  her 
guest,  she  had  only  said: 

"Perhaps  after  all  we  had  better  not  talk  it  out;" 
and  moving  away,  she  heard  him  answer:  "In  any 
case,  I'm  certain  Audrey  Noel  never  wilfully  kept 
your  son  in  the  dark;  she's  much  too  proud." 

Though  ruffled,  she  could  not  help  liking  the  way 
he  stuck  up  for  this  woman;  and  she  threw  back  at 
him  the  words: 

"You  and  I,  Mr.  Courtier,  must  have  a  good  fight 
some  day!" 

She  went  towards  her  husband  conscious  of  the 


158  THE  PATRICIAN 

rather  pleasurable  sensation  which  combat  always 
roused  in  her. 

These  two  were  very  good  comrades.  Theirs  had 
been  a  love  match,  and  making  due  allowance  for 
human  nature  beset  by  opportunity,  had  remained, 
throughout,  a  solid  and  efficient  alliance.  Taking, 
as  they  both  did,  such  prominent  parts  in  public  and 
social  matters,  the  time  they  spent  together  was 
limited,  but  productive  of  mutual  benefit  and  rein- 
forcement. They  had  not  yet  had  an  opportunity 
of  discussing  their  son's  affair;  and,  slipping  her 
hand  through  his  arm,  Lady  Valleys  drew  him  away 
from  the  house. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Miltoun,  Geoff." 

"H'm!"  said  Lord  Valleys;  "yes.  The  boy's 
looking  worn.  Good  thing  when  this  election's 
over." 

"If  he's  beaten  and  hasn't  something  new  and 
serious  to  concentrate  himself  on,  he'll  fret  his  heart 
out  over  that  woman." 

Lord  Valleys  meditated  a  little  before  replying. 

"I  don't  think  that,  Gertrude.  He's  got  plenty 
of  spirit." 

"Of  course!  But  it's  a  real  passion.  And,  you 
know,  he's  not  like  most  boys,  who'll  take  what  they 
can." 

She  said  this  rather  wistfully. 

"I'm  sorry  for  the  woman,"  mused  Lord  Valleys; 
"I  really  am." 

"They  say  this  rumour's  done  a  lot  of  harm." 

"Our  influence  is  strong  enough  to  survive  that." 


THE  PATRICIAN  159 

"It'll  be  a  squeak;  I  wish  I  knew  what  he  was 
going  to  do.  Will  you  ask  him?" 

"You're  clearly  the  person  to  speak  to  him,"  re- 
plied Lord  Valleys.  "I'm  no  hand  at  that  sort  of 
thing." 

But  Lady  Valleys,  with  genuine  discomfort,  mur- 
mured : 

"My  dear,  I'm  so  nervous  with  Eustace.  When 
he  puts  on  that  smile  of  his  I'm  done  for,  at  once." 

"This  is  obviously  a  woman's  business;  nobody 
like  a  mother." 

"If  it  were  only  one  of  the  others,"  muttered  Lady 
Valleys:  "Eustace  has  that  queer  way  of  making 
you  feel  lumpy." 

Lord  Valleys  looked  at  her  askance.  He  had  that 
kind  of  critical  fastidiousness  which  a  word  will  rouse 
into  activity.  Was  she  lumpy  ?  The  idea  had  never 
struck  him. 

"  Well,  I'll  do  it,  if  I  must,"  sighed  Lady  Valleys. 

When  after  breakfast  she  entered  Miltoun's  'den,' 
he  was  buckling  on  his  spurs  preparatory  to  riding 
out  to  some  of  the  remoter  villages.  Under  the  mask 
of  the  Apache  chief,  Bertie  was  standing,  more  in- 
scrutable and  neat  than  ever,  in  a  perfectly  tied  cra- 
vatte,  perfectly  cut  riding  breeches,  and  boots  worn 
and  polished  till  a  sooty  glow  shone  through  their 
natural  russet.  Not  specially  dandified  in  his  usual 
dress,  Bertie  Caradoc  would  almost  sooner  have  died 
than  disgrace  a  horse.  His  eyes,  the  sharper  because 
they  had  only  half  the  space  of  the  ordinary  eye  to 
glance  from,  at  once  took  in  the  fact  that  his  mother 


160  THE  PATRICIAN 

wished  to  be  alone  with  'old  Miltoun,'  and  he  dis- 
creetly left  the  room. 

That  which  disconcerted  all  who  had  dealings  with 
Miltoun  was  the  discovery  made  soon  or  late,  that 
they  could  not  be  sure  how  anything  would  strike 
him.  In  his  mind,  as  in  his  face,  there  was  a  cer- 
tain regularity,  and  then — impossible  to  say  exactly 
where — it  would  shoot  off  and  twist  round  a  corner. 
This  was  the  legacy  no  doubt  of  the  hard-bitten  in- 
dividuality, which  had  brought  to  the  front  so  many 
of  his  ancestors;  for  in  Miltoun  was  the  blood  not 
only  of  the  Caradocs  and  Fitz-Harolds,  but  of  most 
other  prominent  families  in  the  kingdom,  all  of 
whom,  in  those  ages  before  money  made  the  man, 
must  have  had  a  forbear  conspicuous  by  reason  of 
qualities,  not  always  fine,  but  always  poignant. 

And  now,  though  Lady  Valleys  had  the  audacity 
of  her  physique,  and  was  not  customarily  abashed, 
she  began  by  speaking  of  politics,  hoping  her  son 
would  give  her  an  opening.  But  he  gave  her  none, 
and  she  grew  nervous.  At  last,  summoning  all  her 
coolness,  she  said: 

"I'm  dreadfully  sorry  about  this  affair,  dear  boy. 
Your  father  told  me  of  your  talk  with  him.  Try  not 
to  take  it  too  hard." 

Miltoun  did  not  answer,  and  silence  being  that 
which  Lady  Valleys  habitually  most  dreaded,  she 
took  refuge  in  further  speech,  outlining  for  her  son 
the  whole  episode  as  she  saw  it  from  her  point  of 
view,  and  ending  with  these  words: 

"Surely  it's  not  worth  it." 


THE  PATRICIAN  161 

Miltoun  heard  her  with  his  peculiar  look,  as  of  a 
man  peering  through  a  vizor.  Then  smiling,  he  said* 

"Thank  you;"  and  opened  the  door. 

Lady  Valleys,  without  quite  knowing  whether  he 
intended  her  to  do  so,  indeed  without  quite  knowing 
anything  at  the  moment,  passed  out,  and  Miltoun 
closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  and  Bertie  were  seen  riding 
down  the  drive. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THAT  afternoon  the  wind,  which  had  been  rising 
steadily,  brought  a  flurry  of  clouds  up  from  the 
South- West.  Formed  out  on  the  heart  of  the  At- 
lantic, they  sailed  forward,  swift  and  fleecy  at  first, 
like  the  skirmishing  white  shallops  of  a  great  fleet; 
then,  in  serried  masses,  darkened  the  sun.  About 
four  o'clock  they  broke  in  rain,  which  the  wind  drove 
horizontally  with  a  cold  whiffling  murmur.  As  youth 
and  glamour  die  in  a  face  before  the  cold  rains  of  life, 
so  glory  died  on  the  moor.  The  tors,  from  being 
uplifted  wild  castles,  became  mere  grey  excrescences. 
Distance  failed.  The  cuckoos  were  silent.  There 
was  none  of  the  beauty  that  there  is  in  death,  no 
tragic  greatness — all  was  moaning  and  monotony. 
But  about  seven  the  sun  tore  its  way  back  through 
the  swathe,  and  flared  out.  Like  some  huge  star, 
whose  rays  were  stretching  down  to  the  horizon,  and 
up  to  the  very  top  of  the  hill  of  air,  it  shone  with  an 
amazing  murky  glamour;  the  clouds  splintered  by 
its  shafts,  and  tinged  saffron,  piled  themselves  up  as 
if  in  wonder.  Under  the  sultry  warmth  of  this  new 
great  star,  the  heather  began  to  steam  a  little,  and 
the  glitter  of  its  wet  unopened  bells  was  like  that  of 
innumerable  tiny  smoking  fires.  The  two  brothers 
were  drenched  as  they  cantered  silently  home.  Good 

162 


THE  PATRICIAN  163 

friends  always,  they  had  never  much  to  say  to  one 
another.  For  Miltoun  was  conscious  that  he  thought 
on  a  different  plane  from  Bertie;  and  Bertie  grudged 
even  to  his  brother  any  inkling  of  what  was  passing 
in  his  spirit,  just  as  he  grudged  parting  with  diplo- 
matic knowledge,  or  stable  secrets,  or  indeed  any- 
thing that  might  leave  him  less  in  command  of  life. 
He  grudged  it,  because  in  a  private  sort  of  way  it 
lowered  his  estimation  of  his  own  stoical  self-suffici- 
ency; it  hurt  something  proud  in  the  withdrawing- 
room  of  his  soul.  But  though  he  talked  little,  he 
had  the  power  of  contemplation — often  found  in 
men  of  decided  character,  with  a  tendency  to  liver. 
Once  in  Nepal,  where  he  had  gone  to  shoot,  he  had 
passed  a  month  quite  happily  with  only  a  Ghoorka 
servant  who  could  speak  no  English.  To  those  who 
asked  him  if  he  had  not  been  horribly  bored,  he  had 
always  answered :  "Not  a  bit;  did  a  lot  of  thinking." 
With  Miltoun's  trouble  he  had  the  professional 
sympathy  of  a  brother  and  the  natural  intolerance 
of  a  confirmed  bachelor.  Women  were  to  him  very 
kittle-cattle.  He  distrusted  from  the  bottom  of  his 
soul  those  who  had  such  manifest  power  to  draw 
things  from  you.  He  was  one  of  those  men  in  whom 
some  day  a  woman  might  awaken  a  really  fine  affec- 
tion; but  who,  until  that  time,  would  maintain  the 
perfectly  male  attitude  to  the  entire  sex,  and,  after  it, 
to  all  the  sex  but  one.  Women  were,  like  Life  itself, 
creatures  to  be  watched,  carefully  used,  and  kept 
duly  subservient.  The  only  allusion  therefore  that 
he  made  to  Miltoun's  trouble  was  very  sudden. 


1 64  THE  PATRICIAN 

"Old  man,  I  hope  you're  going  to  cut  your 
losses." 

The  words  were  followed  by  undisturbed  silence. 
But  passing  Mrs.  Noel's  cottage  Miltoun  said: 

"Take  my  horse  on;  I  want  to  go  in  here."  .  .  . 

She  was  sitting  at  her  piano  with  her  hands  idle, 
looking  at  a  line  of  music.  She  had  been  sitting 
thus  for  many  minutes,  but  had  not  yet  taken  in  the 
notes. 

When  Miltoun's  shadow  blotted  the  light  by  which 
she  was  seeing  so  little,  she  gave  a  slight  start,  and 
got  up.  But  she  neither  went  towards  him,  nor 
spoke.  And  he,  without  a  word,  came  in  and  stood 
by  the  hearth,  looking  down  at  the  empty  grate.  A 
tortoise-shell  cat  which  had  been  watching  swallows, 
disturbed  by  his  entrance,  withdrew  from  the  window 
beneath  a  chair. 

This  silence,  in  which  the  question  of  their  future 
lives  was  to  be  decided,  seemed  to  both  interminable; 
yet,  neither  could  end  it. 

At  last,  touching  his  sleeve,  she  said:  "You're 
wet!" 

Miltoun  shivered  at  that  timid  sign  of  possession. 
And  they  again  stood  in  silence  broken  only  by  the 
sound  of  the  cat  licking  its  paws. 

But  her  faculty  for  dumbness  was  stronger  than 
his,  and  he  had  to  speak  first. 

"Forgive  me  for  coming;  something  must  be  set- 
tled. This  rumour " 

"Oh!  that!"  she  said.  "Is  there  anything  I  can 
do  to  stop  the  harm  to  you?" 


THE  PATRICIAN  165 

It  was  the  turn  of  Miltoun's  lips  to  curl.  "  God ! 
no;  let  them  talk!" 

Their  eyes  had  come  together  now,  and,  once  to- 
gether, seemed  unable  to  part. 

Mrs.  Noel  said  at  last: 

"Will  you  ever  forgive  me?" 

"What  for — it  was  my  fault." 

"No,  I  should  have  known  you  better." 

The  depth  of  meaning  in  those  words — the  tre- 
mendous and  subtle  admission  they  contained  of  all 
that  she  had  been  ready  to  do,  the  despairing  knowl- 
edge in  them  that  he  was  not,  and  never  had  been, 
ready  to  'bear  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom' — 
made  Miltoun  wince  away. 

"It  is  not  from  fear — believe  that,  anyway." 

"I  do." 

There  followed  another  long,  long  silence.  But 
though  so  close  that  they  were  almost  touching,  they 
no  longer  looked  at  one  another.  Then  Miltoun 
said: 

"There  is  only  to  say  good-bye,  then." 

At  those  clear  words  spoken  by  lips  which,  though 
just  smiling,  failed  so  utterly  to  hide  his  misery,  Mrs. 
Noel's  face  became  colourless  as  her  white  gown. 
But  her  eyes,  which  had  grown  immense,  seemed, 
from  the  sheer  lack  of  all  other  colour,  to  have  drawn 
into  them  the  whole  of  her  vitality;  to  be  pouring 
forth  a  proud  and  mournful  reproach. 

Shivering,  and  crushing  himself  together  with  his 
arms,  Miltoun  walked  towards  the  window.  There 
was  not  the  faintest  sound  from  her,  and  he  looked 


1 66  THE  PATRICIAN 

back.  She  was  following  him  with  her  eyes.  He 
threw  his  hand  up  over  his  face,  and  went  quickly 
out.  Mrs.  Noel  stood  for  a  little  while  where  he  had 
left  her;  then,  sitting  down  once  more  at  the  piano, 
began  again  to  con  over  the  line  of  music.  And  the 
cat  stole  back  to  the  window  to  watch  the  swallows. 
The  sunlight  was  dying  slowly  on  the  top  branches 
of  the  lime-tree;  a  drizzling  rain  began  to  fall. 


CHAPTER  XX 

CLAUD  FRESNAY,  Viscount  Harbinger  was,  at  the 
age  of  thirty-one,  perhaps  the  least  encumbered  peer 
in  the  United  Kingdom.  Thanks  to  an  ancestor 
who  had  acquired  land,  and  departed  this  life  one 
hundred  and  thirty  years  before  the  town  of  Nettle- 
fold  was  built  on  a  small  portion  of  it,  and  to  a 
father  who  had  died  in  his  son's  infancy,  after 
judiciously  selling  the  said  town,  he  possessed  a  very 
large  income  independently  of  his  landed  interests. 
Tall  and  well-built,  with  handsome,  strongly-marked 
features,  he  gave  at  first  sight  an  impression  of 
strength — which  faded  somewhat  when  he  began  to 
talk.  It  was  not  so  much  the  manner  of  his  speech 
— with  its  rapid  slang,  and  its  way  of  turning  every- 
thing to  a  jest — as  the  feeling  it  produced,  that  the 
brain  behind  it  took  naturally  the  path  of  least  re- 
sistance. He  was  in  fact  one  of  those  personalities 
who  are  often  enough  prominent  in  politics  and 
social  life,  by  reason  of  their  appearance,  position, 
assurance,  and  of  a  certain  energy,  half  genuine,  and 
half  mere  inherent  predilection  for  short  cuts.  Cer- 
tainly he  was  not  idle,  had  written  a  book,  travelled, 
was  a  Captain  of  Yeomanry,  a  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
a  good  cricketer,  and  a  constant  and  glib  speaker. 
It  would  have  been  unfair  to  call  his  enthusiasm  for 

167 


1 68  THE  PATRICIAN 

social  reform  spurious.  It  was  real  enough  in  its 
way,  and  did  certainly  testify  that  he  was  not  alto- 
gether lacking  either  in  imagination  or  good-heart- 
edness.  But  it  was  over  and  overlaid  with  the  public- 
school  habit — that  peculiar,  extraordinarily  English 
habit,  so  powerful  and  beguiling  that  it  becomes  a 
second  nature  stronger  than  the  first — of  relating 
everything  in  the  Universe  to  the  standards  and 
prejudices  of  a  single  class.  Since  practically  all  his 
intimate  associates  were  immersed  in  it,  he  was 
naturally  not  in  the  least  conscious  of  this  habit; 
indeed  there  was  nothing  he  deprecated  so  much  in 
politics  as  the  narrow  and  prejudiced  outlook,  such 
as  he  had  observed  in  the  Nonconformist,  or  labour 
politician.  He  would  never  have  admitted  for  a 
moment  that  certain  doors  had  been  banged-to  at  his 
birth,  bolted  when  he  went  to  Eton,  and  padlocked 
at  Cambridge.  No  one  would  have  denied  that  there 
was  much  that  was  valuable  in  his  standards — a  high 
level  of  honesty,  candour,  sportsmanship,  personal 
cleanliness,  and  self-reliance,  together  with  a  dislike 
of  such  cruelty  as  had  been  officially  (so  to  speak) 
recognized  as  cruelty,  and  a  sense  of  public  service 
to  a  State  run  by  and  for  the  public  schools;  but  it 
would  have  required  far  more  originality  than  he 
possessed  ever  to  look  at  Life  from  any  other  point 
of  view  than  that  from  which  he  had  been  born  and 
bred  to  watch  Her.  To  fully  understand  Harbinger, 
one  must,  and  with  unprejudiced  eyes  and  brain, 
have  attended  one  of  those  great  cricket  matches  in 
which  he  had  figured  conspicuously  as  a  boy,  and 


THE  PATRICIAN  169 

looking  down  from  some  high  impartial  spot  have 
watched  the  ground  at  lunch  time  covered  from  rope 
to  rope  and  stand  to  stand  with  a  marvellous  swarm, 
all  walking  in  precisely  the  same  manner,  with  pre- 
cisely the  same  expression  on  their  faces,  under 
precisely  the  same  hats — a  swarm  enshrining  the 
greatest  identity  of  creed  and  habit  ever  known  since 
the  world  began.  No,  his  environment  had  not  been 
favourable  to  originality.  Moreover  he  was  naturally 
rapid  rather  than  deep,  and  life  hardly  ever  left  him 
alone  or  left  him  silent.  Brought  into  contact  day 
and  night  with  people  to  whom  politics  were  more 
or  less  a  game;  run  after  everywhere;  subjected  to 
no  form  of  discipline — it  was  a  wonder  that  he  was 
as  serious  as  he  was.  Nor  had  he  ever  been  in  love, 
until,  last  year,  during  her  first  season,  Barbara  had, 
as  he  might  have  expressed  it — in  the  case  of  another 
— 'bowled  him  middle  stump.'  Though  so  deeply 
smitten,  he  had  not  yet  asked  her  to  marry  him — 
had  not,  as  it  were,  had  time,  nor  perhaps  quite  the 
courage,  or  conviction.  When  he  was  near  her,  it 
seemed  impossible  that  he  could  go  on  longer  with- 
out knowing  his  fate ;  when  he  was  away  from  her 
it  was  almost  a  relief,  because  there  were  so  many 
things  to  be  done  and  said,  and  so  little  time  to  do 
or  say  them  in.  But  now,  during  this  fortnight, 
which,  for  her  sake,  he  had  devoted  to  Miltoun's 
cause,  his  feeling  had  advanced  beyond  the  point  of 
comfort. 

He  did  not  admit  that  the  reason  of  this  uneasiness 
was  Courtier,  for,  after  all,  Courtier  was,  in  a  sense, 


1 70  THE  PATRICIAN 

nobody,  and  'an  extremist'  into  the  bargain,  and  an 
extremist  always  affected  the  centre  of  Harbinger's 
anatomy,  causing  it  to  give  off  a  peculiar  smile  and 
tone  of  voice.  Nevertheless,  his  eyes,  whenever  they 
fell  on  that  sanguine,  steady,  ironic  face,  shone  with 
a  sort  of  cold  inquiry,  or  were  even  darkened  by  the 
shade  of  fear.  They  met  seldom,  it  is  true,  for  most 
of  his  day  was  spent  in  motoring  and  speaking,  and 
most  of  Courtier's  in  writing  and  riding,  his  leg  being 
still  too  weak  for  walking.  But  once  or  twice  in  the 
smoking  room  late  at  night,  he  had  embarked  on 
some  bantering  discussion  with  the  champion  of  lost 
causes;  and  very  soon  an  ill-concealed  impatience 
had  crept  into  his  voice.  Why  a  man  should  waste 
his  time,  flogging  dead  horses  on  a  journey  to  the 
moon,  was  incomprehensible!  Facts  were  facts, 
human  nature  would  never  be  anything  but  human 
nature!  And  it  was  peculiarly  galling  to  see  in 
Courtier's  eye  a  gleam,  to  catch  in  his  voice  a  tone, 
as  if  he  were  thinking:  "My  young  friend,  your  soup 
is  cold!" 

On  a  morning  after  one  of  these  encounters,  seeing 
Barbara  sally  forth  in  riding  clothes,  he  asked  if  he 
too  might  go  round  the  stables,  and  started  forth 
beside  her,  unwontedly  silent,  with  an  odd  feeling 
about  his  heart,  and  his  throat  unaccountably  dry. 

The  stables  at  Monkland  Court  were  as  large  as 
many  country  houses.  Accommodating  thirty  horses, 
they  were  at  present  occupied  by  twenty-one,  includ- 
ing the  pony  of  little  Ann.  For  height,  perfection  of 
lighting,  gloss,  shine,  and  purity  of  atmosphere  they 


THE  PATRICIAN  171 

,verc  unequalled  in  the  county.  It  seemed  indeed 
impossible  that  any  horse  could  ever  so  far  forget 
himself  in  such  a  place  as  to  remember  that  he  was  a 
horse.  Every  morning  a  little  bin  of  carrots,  apples, 
and  lumps  of  sugar,  was  set  close  to  the  main  entrance, 
ready  for  those  who  might  desire  to  feed  the  dear 
inhabitants. 

Reined  up  to  a  brass  ring  on  either  side  of  their 
stalls  with  their  noses  towards  the  doors,  they  were 
always  on  view  from  nine  to  ten,  and  would  stand 
with  their  necks  arched,  ears  pricked,  and  coats 
gleaming,  wondering  about  things,  soothed  by  the 
faint  hissing  of  the  still  busy  grooms,  and  ready  to 
move  their  noses  up  and  down  the  moment  they  saw 
someone  enter. 

In  a  large  loose-box  at  the  end  of  the  north  wing 
Barbara's  favourite  chestnut  hunter,  all  but  one 
saving  sixteenth  of  whom  had  been  entered  in  the 
stud  book,  having  heard  her  footstep,  was  standing 
quite  still  with  his  neck  turned.  He  had  been 
crumping  up  an  apple  placed  amongst  his  feed,  and 
his  senses  struggled  between  the  lingering  flavour  of 
that  delicacy,  and  the  perception  of  a  sound  with 
which  he  connected  carrots.  When  she  unlatched 
his  door,  and  said  "Hal,"  he  at  once  went  towards 
his  manger,  to  show  his  independence,  but  when  she 
said:  "Oh!  very  well!"  he  turned  round  and  came 
towards  her.  His  eyes,  which  were  full  and  of  a 
soft  brilliance,  under  thick  chestnut  lashes,  explored 
her  all  over.  Perceiving  that  her  carrots  were  not 
in  front,  he  elongated  his  neck,  let  his  nose  stray 


172  THE  PATRICIAN 

round  her  waist,  and  gave  her  gauntletted  hand  a  nip 
with  his  lips.  Not  tasting  carrot,  he  withdrew  his 
nose,  and  snuffled.  Then  stepping  carefully  so  as 
not  to  tread  on  her  foot,  he  bunted  her  gently  with 
his  shoulder,  till  with  a  quick  manoeuvre  he  got  be- 
hind her  and  breathed  low  and  long  on  her  neck. 
Even  this  did  not  smell  of  carrots,  and  putting  his 
muzzle  over  her  shoulder  against  her  cheek,  he  slob- 
bered a  very  little.  A  carrot  appeared  about  the 
level  of  her  waist,  and  hanging  his  head  over,  he 
tried  to  reach  it.  Feeling  it  all  firm  and  soft  under 
his  chin,  he  snuffled  again,  and  gave  her  a  gentle 
dig  with  his  knee.  But  still  unable  to  reach  the 
carrot,  he  threw  his  head  up,  withdrew,  and  pre- 
tended not  to  see  her.  And  suddenly  he  felt  two 
long  substances  round  his  neck,  and  something  soft 
against  his  nose.  He  suffered  this  in  silence,  laying 
his  ears  back.  The  softness  began  puffing  on  his 
muzzle.  Pricking  his  ears  again,  he  puffed  back  a 
little  harder,  with  more  curiosity,  and  the  softness 
was  withdrawn.  He  perceived  suddenly  that  he  had 
a  carrot  in  his  mouth. 

Harbinger  had  witnessed  this  episode,  oddly  pale, 
leaning  against  the  loose-box  wall.  He  spoke,  as  it 
came  to  an  end: 

"Lady  Babs!" 

The  tone  of  his  voice  must  have  been  as  strange  as 
it  sounded  to  himself,  for  Barbara  spun  round. 

"Yes?" 

"How  long  am  I  going  on  like  this?" 

Neither  changing  colour  nor  dropping  her  eyes, 


THE  PATRICIAN  173 

she  regarded  him  with  a  faintly  inquisitive  interest. 
It  was  not  a  cruel  look,  had  not  a  trace  of  mischief, 
or  sex  malice,  and  yet  it  frightened  him  by  its  serene 
inscrutability.  Impossible  to  tell  what  was  going  on 
behind  it.  He  took  her  hand,  bent  over  it,  and  said 
in  a  low  voice: 

"You  know  what  I  feel;  don't  be  cruel  to  me!" 

She  did  not  pull  away  her  hand;  it  was  as  if  she 
had  not  thought  of  it. 

"I  am  not  a  bit  cruel." 

Looking  up,  he  saw  her  smiling. 

"Then— Babs!" 

His  face  was  close  to  hers,  but  Barbara  did  not 
shrink  back.  She  just  shook  her  head;  and  Har- 
binger flushed  up. 

"Why?"  he  asked;  and  as  though  the  enormous 
injustice  of  that  rejecting  gesture  had  suddenly  struck 
him,  he  dropped  her  hand. 

"Why?"  he  said  again,  sharply. 

But  the  silence  was  only  broken  by  the  cheeping 
of  sparrows  outside  the  round  window,  and  the  sound 
of  the  horse,  Hal,  munching  the  last  morsel  of  his 
carrot.  Harbinger  was  aware  in  his  every  nerve  of 
the  sweetish,  slightly  acrid,  husky  odour  of  the  loose- 
box,  mingling  with  the  scent  of  Barbara's  hair  and 
clothes.  And  rather  miserably,  he  said  for  the  third 
time: 

"Why?" 

But  folding  her  hands  away  behind  her  back,  she 
answered  gently: 

"My  dear,  how  should  I  know  why?" 


174  THE  PATRICIAN 

She  was  calmly  exposed  to  his  embrace  if  he  had 
only  dared;  but  he  did  not  dare,  and  went  back  to 
the  loose-box  wall.  Biting  his  finger,  he  stared  at 
her  gloomily.  She  was  stroking  the  muzzle  of  her 
horse;  and  a  sort  of  dry  rage  began  whisking  and 
rustling  in  his  heart.  She  had  refused  him — Har- 
binger! He  had  not  known,  had  not  suspected  how 
much  he  wanted  her.  How  could  there  be  anybody 
else  for  him,  while  that  young,  calm,  sweet-scented, 
smiling  thing  lived,  to  make  his  head  go  round,  his 
senses  ache,  and  to  fill  his  heart  with  longing!  He 
seemed  to  himself  at  that  moment  the  most  unhappy 
of  all  men. 

"I  shall  not  give  you  up,"  he  muttered. 

Barbara's  answer  was  a  smile,  faintly  curious, 
compassionate,  yet  almost  grateful,  as  if  she  had 
said: 

"Thank  you — who  knows?" 

And  rather  quickly,  a  yard  or  so  apart,  and  talking 
of  horses,  they  returned  to  the  house. 

It  was  about  noon,  when,  accompanied  by  Cour- 
tier, she  rode  forth. 

The  Sou-Westerly  spell — a  matter  of  three  days — - 
had  given  way  before  radiant  stillness;  and  merely 
to  be  alive  was  to  feel  emotion.  At  a  little  stream 
running  beside  the  moor  under  the  wild  stone  man 
the  riders  stopped  their  horses,  just  to  listen,  and 
inhale  the  day.  The  far  sweet  chorus  of  life  was 
tuned  to  a  most  delicate  rhythm;  not  one  of  those 
small  mingled  pipings  of  streams  and  the  lazy  air,  of 
beasts,  men,  birds,  and  bees,  jarred  out  too  harshly 


THE  PATRICIAN  175 

through  the  garment  of  sound  enwrapping  the  earth. 
It  was  noon — the  still  moment — but  this  hymn  to 
the  sun,  after  his  too  long  absence,  never  for  a  mo- 
ment ceased  to  be  murmured.  And  the  earth  wore 
an  under-robe  of  scent,  delicious,  very  finely  woven 
of  the  young  fern  sap,  heather  buds,  larch-trees  not 
yet  odourless,  gorse  just  going  brown,  drifted  wood- 
smoke,  and  the  breath  of  hawthorn.  Above  Earth's 
twin  vestments  of  sound  and  scent,  the  blue  enwrap- 
ping scarf  of  air,  that  wistful  wide  champaign,  was 
spanned  only  by  the  wings  of  Freedom. 

After  that  long  drink  of  the  day,  the  riders  mounted 
almost  in"  silence  to  the  very  top  of  the  moor.  There 
again  they  sat  quite  still  on  their  horses,  examining 
the  prospect.  Far  away  to  South  and  East  lay  the 
sea,  plainly  visible.  Two  small  groups  of  wild 
ponies  were  slowly  grazing  towards  each  other  on 
the  hillside  below. 

Courtier  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"'Thus  will  I  sit  and  sing,  with  love  in  my  arms; 
watching  our  two  herds  mingle  together,  and  below 
us  the  far,  divine,  cerulean  sea.'  " 

And,  after  another  silence,  looking  steadily  in  Bar- 
bara's face,  he  added: 

"Lady  Barbara,  I  am  afraid  this  is  the  last  time 
we  shall  be  alone  together.  While  I  have  the  chance, 
therefore,  I  must  do  homage.  You  will  always  be 
the  fixed  star  for  my  worship.  But  your  rays  are 
too  bright;  I  shall  worship  from  afar.  From  your 
seventh  Heaven,  therefore,  look  down  on  me  with 
kindly  eyes,  and  do  not  quite  forget  me." 


176  THE  PATRICIAN 

Under  that  speech,  so  strangely  compounded  of 
irony  and  fervour,  Barbara  sat  very  still,  with  glow- 
ing cheeks. 

"Yes,"  said  Courtier,  "only  an  immortal  must 
embrace  a  goddess.  Outside  the  purlieus  of  Au- 
thority I  shall  sit  cross-legged,  and  prostrate  myself 
three  times  a  day." 

But  Barbara  answered  nothing. 

"In  the  early  morning,"  went  on  Courtier,  "leav- 
ing the  dark  and  dismal  homes  of  Freedom  I  shall 
look  towards  the  Temples  of  the  Great;  there  with 
the  eye  of  faith  I  shall  see  you." 

He  stopped,  for  Barbara's  lips  were  moving. 

"Don't  hurt  me,  please." 

Courtier  leaned  over,  took  her  hand,  and  put  it  to 
his  lips.  "We  will  now  ride  on.  .  .  ." 

That  night  at  dinner  Lord  Dennis,  seated  opposite 
his  great-niece,  was  struck  by  her  appearance. 

"A  very  beautiful  child,"  he  thought,  "a  most 
lovely  young  creature!" 

She  was  placed  between  Courtier  and  Harbinger. 
And  the  old  man's  still  keen  eyes  carefully  watched 
those  two.  Though  attentive  to  their  neighbours  on 
the  other-  side,  they  were  both  of  them  keeping  the 
corner  of  an  eye  on  Barbara  and  on  each  other. 
The  thing  was  transparent  to  Lord  Dennis,  and  a 
smile  settled  in  that  nest  of  gravity  between  his 
white  peaked  beard  and  moustaches.  But  he  waited, 
the  instinct  of  a  fisherman  bidding  him  to  neglect  no 
piece  of  water,  till  he  saw  the  child  silent  and  in  re- 


THE  PATRICIAN  177 

pose,  and  watched  carefully  to  see  what  would  rise. 
Although  she  was  so  calmly,  so  healthily  eating,  her 
eyes  stole  round  at  Courtier.  This  quick  look 
seemed  to  Lord  Dennis  perturbed,  as  if  something 
were  exciting  her.  Then  Harbinger  spoke,  and  she 
turned  to  answer  him.  Her  face  was  calm  now, 
faintly  smiling,  a  little  eager,  provocative  in  its  joy 
of  life.  It  made  Lord  Dennis  think  of  his  own  youth. 
What  a  splendid  couple!  If  Babs  married  young 
Harbinger  there  would  not  be  a  finer  pair  in  all  Eng- 
land. His  eyes  travelled  back  to  Courtier.  Manly 
enough!  They  called  him  dangerous!  There  was 
a  look  of  effervescence,  carefully  corked  down — 
might  perhaps  be  attractive  to  a  girl!  To  his  essen- 
tially practical  and  sober  mind,  a  type  like  Courtier 
was  puzzling.  He  liked  the  look  of  him,  but  dis- 
trusted his  ironic  expression,  and  that  appearance  of 
blood  to  the  head.  Fellow — no  doubt — that  would 
ride  off  on  his  ideas,  humanitarian !  To  Lord  Dennis, 
there  was  something  queer  about  humanitarians. 
They  offended  perhaps  his  dry  and  precise  sense  of 
form.  They  were  always  looking  out  for  cruelty  or 
injustice; -seemed  delighted  when  they  found  it — 
swelled  up,  as  it  were,  when  they  scented  it,  and  as 
there  was  a  good  deal  about,  were  never  quite  of 
normal  size.  Men  who  lived  for  ideas  were,  in  fact, 
to  one  for  whom  facts  sufficed  always  a  little  worry- 
ing! A  movement  from  Barbara  brought  him  back 
to  actuality.  Was  the  possessor  of  that  crown  of 
hair  and  those  divine  young  shoulders  the  little  Babs 
who  had  ridden  with  him  in  the  Row?  Time  was 


1 78  THE  PATRICIAN 

certainly  the  Devil!  Her  eyes  were  searching  for 
something;  [and  following  the  direction  of  that  glance, 
Lord  Dennis  found  himself  observing  Miltoun. 
What  a  difference  between  those  two!  Both  no 
doubt  in  the  great  trouble  of  youth,  which  some- 
times, as  he  knew  too  well,  lasted  on  almost  to  old 
age.  It  was  a  curious  look  the  child  was  giving  her 
brother,  as  if  asking  him  to  help  her.  Lord  Dennis 
had  seen  in  his  day  many  young  creatures  leave  the 
shelter  of  their  freedom  and  enter  the  house  of  the 
great  lottery;  many,  who  had  drawn  a  prize  and 
thereat  lost  forever  the  coldness  of  life;  many  too, 
the  light  of  whose  eyes  had  faded  behind  the  shutters 
of  that  house,  having  drawn  a  blank.  The  thought 
of  'little'  Babs  on  the  threshold  of  that  inexorable 
saloon,  filled  him  with  an  eager  sadness;  and  the 
sight  of  the  two  men  watching  for  her,  waiting  for 
her,  like  hunters,  was  to  him  distasteful.  In  any 
case,  let  her  not,  for  Heaven's  sake,  go  ranging  as  far 
as  that  red  fellow  of  middle  age,  who  might  have 
ideas,  but  had  no  pedigree;  let  her  stick  to  youth 
and  her  own  order,  and  marry  the  young  man,  con- 
found him,  who  looked  like  a  Greek  god,  of  the 
wrong  period,  having  grown  a  moustache.  He  re- 
membered her  words  the  other  evening  about  these 
two  and  the  different  lives  they  lived.  Some  roman- 
tic notion  or  other  was  working  in  her!  And  again 
he  looked  at  Courtier.  A  Quixotic  type — the  sort 
that  rode  slap-bang  at  everything!  All  very  well — 
but  not  for  Babs!  She  was  not  like  the  glorious 
Garibaldi's  glorious  Anita!  It  was  truly  character- 


THE  PATRICIAN  179 

istic  of  Lord  Dennis — and  indeed  of  other  people- 
that  to  him  champions  of  Liberty  when  dead  were 
far  dearer  than  champions  of  Liberty  when  living. 
Yes,  Babs  would  want  more,  or  was  it  less,  than 
just  a  life  of  sleeping  under  the  stars  for  the  man  she 
loved,  and  the  cause  he  fought  for.  She  would  want 
pleasure,  and  not  too  much  effort,  and  presently  a 
little  power;  not  the  uncomfortable  after-fame  of  a 
woman  who  went  through  fire,  but  the  fame  and 
power  of  beauty,  and  Society  prestige.  This  fancy 
of  hers,  if  it  were  a  fancy,  could  be  nothing  but  the 
romanticism  of  a  young  girl.  For  the  sake  of  a  pas- 
sing shadow,  to  give  up  substance  ?  It  wouldn't  do ! 
And  again  Lord  Dennis  fixed  his  shrewd  glance  on 
his  great-niece.  Those  eyes,  that  smile!  Yes!  She 
would  grow  out  of  this.  And  take  the  Greek  god, 
the  dying  Gaul — whichever  that  young  man  was! 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IT  was  not  till  the  morning  of  polling  day  itself 
that  Courtier  left  Monkland  Court.  He  had  al- 
ready suffered  for  some  time  from  bad  conscience. 
For  his  knee  was  practically  cured,  and  he  knew 
well  that  it  was  Barbara,  and  Barbara  alone,  who 
kept  him  staying  there.  The  atmosphere  of  that  big 
house  with  its  army  of  servants,  the  impossibility  of 
doing  anything  for  himself,  and  the  feeling  of  hope- 
less insulation  from  the  vivid  and  necessitous  sides  of 
life,  galled  him  greatly.  He  felt  a  very  genuine  pity 
for  these  people  who  seemed  to  lead  an  existence  as 
it  were  smothered  under  their  own  social  importance. 
It  was  not  their  fault.  He  recognized  that  they  did 
their  best.  They  were  good  specimens  of  their  kind ; 
neither  soft  nor  luxurious,  as  things  went  in  a  degen- 
erate and  extravagant  [age ;  they  evidently  tried  to 
be  simple — and  this  seemed  to  him  to  heighten  the 
pathos  of  their  situation.  Fate  had  been  too  much 
for  them.  What  human  spirit  could  emerge  untram- 
melled and  unshrunken  from  that  great  encompassing 
host  of  material  advantage?  To  a  Bedouin  like 
Courtier,  it  was  as  though  a  subtle,  but  very  terrible 
tragedy  was  all  the  time  being  played  before  his  eyes; 
and  in  the  very  centre  of  this  tragedy  was  the  girl 

1 80 


THE  PATRICIAN  181 

who  so  greatly  attracted  him.  Every  night  when  he 
retired  to  that  lofty  room,  which  smelt  so  good,  and 
where,  without  ostentation,  everything  was  so  per- 
fectly ordered  for  his  comfort,  he  thought: 

"My  God,  to-morrow  I'll  be  off!" 

But  every  morning  when  he  met  her  at  breakfast 
his  thought  was  precisely  the  same,  and  there  were 
moments  when  he  caught  himself  wondering:  "Am 
I  falling  under  the  spell  of  this  existence — am  I 
getting  soft?"  He  recognized  as  never  before  that 
the  peculiar  artificial  'hardness'  of  the  patrician  was 
a  brine  or  pickle,  in  which,  with  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  they  deliberately  soaked  themselves,  to 
prevent  the  decay  of  their  overprotected  fibre.  He 
perceived  it  even  in  Barbara — a  sort  of  sentiment- 
proof  overall,  a  species  of  mistrust  of  the  emotional 
or  lyrical,  a  kind  of  contempt  of  sympathy  and  feel- 
ing. And  every  day  he  was  more  and  more  tempted 
to  lay  rude  hands  on  this  garment ;  to  see  whether  he 
could  not  make  her  catch  fire,  and  flare  up  with  some 
emotion  or  idea.  In  spite  of  her  tantalizing,  youth- 
ful self-possession,  he  saw  that  she  felt  this  longing 
in  him,  and  now  and  then  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
streak  of  recklessness  in  her  which  lured  him  on. 

And  yet,  when  at  last  he  was  saying  good-bye  on 
the  night  before  polling  day,  he  could  not  flatter 
himself  that  he  had  really  struck  any  spark  from  her. 
Certainly  she  gave  him  no  chance,  at  that  final  inter- 
view, but  stood  amongst  the  other  women,  calm  and 
smiling,  as  if  determined  that  he  should  not  again 
mock  her  with  his  ironical  devotion. 


182  THE  PATRICIAN 

He  got  up  very  early  the  next  morning,  intending 
to  pass  away  unseen.  In  the  car  put  at  his  disposal, 
he  found  a  small  figure  in  a  holland  frock,  leaning 
back  against  the  cushions  so  that  some  sandalled  toes 
pointed  up  at  the  chauffeur's  back.  They  belonged 
to  little  Ann,  who  in  the  course  of  business  had  dis- 
covered the  vehicle  before  the  door.  Her  sudden 
little  voice  under  her  sudden  little  nose,  friendly  but 
not  too  friendly,  was  comforting  to  Courtier. 

"Are  you  going?    I  can  come  as  far  as  the  gate." 

"That  is  lucky." 

"Yes.    Is  that  all  your  luggage?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  is." 

"Oh!    It's  quite  a  lot,  really,  isn't  it?" 

"As  much  as  I  deserve." 

"Of  course  you  don't  have  to  take  guinea-pigs 
about  with  you?" 

"Not  as  a  rule." 

"I  always  do.    There's  great-Granny!" 

There  certainly  was  Lady  Casterley,  standing  a 
little  back  from  the  drive,  and  directing  a  tall  gar- 
dener how  to  deal  with  an  old  oak-tree.  Courtier 
alighted,  and  went  towards  her  to  say  good-bye. 
She  greeted  him  with  a  certain  grim  cordiality. 

"So  you  are  going!  I  am  glad  of  that,  though  you 
quite  understand  that  I  like  you  personally." 

"Quite!" 

Her  eyes  gleamed  maliciously. 

"Men  who  laugh  like  you  are  dangerous,  as  I've 
told  you  before!" 

Then,  with  great  gravity,  she  added: 


THE  PATRICIAN  183 

"My  granddaughter  will  marry  Lord  Harbinger. 
I  mention  that,  Mr.  Courtier,  for  your  peace  of  mind. 
You  are  a  man  of  honour;  it  will  go  no  further." 

Courtier,  bowing  over  her  hand,  answered: 

"He  will  be  lucky." 

The  little  old  lady  regarded  him  unflinchingly. 

"He  will,  sir.     Good-bye!" 

Courtier  smilingly  raised  his  hat.  His  cheeks 
were  burning.  Regaining  the  car,  he  looked  round. 
Lady  Casterley  was  busy  once  more  exhorting  the 
tall  gardener.  The  voice  of  little  Ann  broke  in  on 
his  thoughts: 

"I  hope  you'll  come  again.  Because  I  expect  I 
shall  be  here  at  Christmas;  and  my  brothers  will  be 
here  then,  that  is,  Jock  and  Tiddy,  not  Christopher 
because  he's  young.  I  must  go  now.  Good-bye! 
Hallo,  Susie!" 

Courtier  saw  her  slide  away,  and  join  the  little 
pale  adoring  figure  of  the  lodge-keeper's  daughter. 

The  car  passed  out  into  the  lane. 

If  Lady  Casterley  had  planned  this  disclosure, 
which  indeed  she  had  not,  for  the  impulse  had  only 
come  over  her  at  the  sound  of  Courtier's  laugh,  she 
could  not  have  devised  one  more  effectual,  for  there 
was  deep  down  in  him  all  a  wanderer's  very  real  dis- 
trust, amounting  almost  to  contempt,  of  people  so 
settled  and  done  for,  as  aristocrats  or  bourgeois,  and 
all  a  man  of  action's  horror  of  what  he  called — 
'puking  and  muling.'  The  pursuit  of  Barbara  with 
any  other  object  but  that  of  marriage  had  naturally 
not  occurred  to  one  who  had  little  sense  of  conven- 


1 84  THE  PATRICIAN 

tional  morality,  but  much  self-respect;  and  a  secret 
endeavour  to  cut  out  Harbinger,  ending  in  a  marriage 
whereat  he  would  figure  as  a  sort  of  pirate,  was  quite 
as  little  to  the  taste  of  a  man  not  unaccustomed  to 
think  himself  as  good  as  other  people. 

He  caused  the  car  to  deviate  up  the  lane  that  led 
to  Audrey  Noel's,  hating  to  go  away  without  a  hail 
of  cheer  to  that  ship  in  distress. 

She  came  out  to  him  on  the  verandah.  From  the 
clasp  of  her  hand,  thin  and  faintly  browned — the 
hand  of  a  woman  never  quite  idle — he  felt  that  she 
relied  on  him  to  understand  and  sympathize;  and 
nothing  so  awakened  the  best  in  Courtier  as  such 
mute  appeals  to  his  protection.  He  said  gently: 

"Don't  let  them  think  you're  down;"  and,  squeez- 
ing her  hand  hard:  "Why  should  you  be  wasted  like 
this?  It's  a  sin  and  shame!" 

But  he  stopped  in  what  he  felt  to  be  an  unlucky 
speech  at  sight  of  her  face,  which  without  movement 
expressed  so  much  more  than  his  words.  He  was 
protesting  as  a  civilized  man;  her  face  was  the  pro- 
xtest  of  Nature,  the  soundless  declaration  of  beauty 
wasted  against  its  will,  beauty  that  was  life's  invita- 
tion to  the  embrace  which  gave  life  birth. 

"I'm  clearing  out,  myself,"  he  said:  "You  and  I, 
you  know,  are  not  good  for  these  people.  No  birds 
of  freedom  allowed!" 

Pressing  his  hand,  she  turned  away  into  the  house, 
leaving  Courtier  gazing  at  the  patch  of  air  where  her 
white  figure  had  stood.  He  had  always  had  a  special 
protective  feeling  for  Audrey  Noel,  a  feeling  which 


THE  PATRICIAN  185 

with  but  little  encouragement  might  have  become 
something  warmer.  But  since  she  had  been  placed 
in  her  anomalous  position,  he  would  not  for  the  world 
have  brushed  the  dew  off  her  belief  that  she  could 
trust  him.  And  now  that  he  had  fixed  his  own  gaze 
elsewhere,  and  she  was  in  this  bitter  trouble,  he  felt 
on  her  account  the  rancour  that  a  brother  feels  when 
Justice  and  Pity  have  conspired  to  flout  his  sister. 
The  voice  of  Frith  the  chauffeur  roused  him  from 
gloomy  reverie. 

"Lady  Barbara,  sir!" 

Following  the  man's  eyes,  Courtier  saw  against  the 
sky-line  on  the  tor  above  Ashman's  Folly,  an  eques- 
trian statue.  He  stopped  the  car  at  once,  and  got 
out. 

He  reached  her  at  the  ruin,  screened  from  the  road, 
by  that  divine  chance  which  attends  on  men  who  take 
care  that  it  shall.  He  could  not  tell  whether  she 
knew  of  his  approach,  and  he  would  have  given  all 
he  had,  which  was  not  much,  to  have  seen  through 
the  stiff  grey  of  her  coat,  and  the  soft  cream  of  her 
body,  into  that  mysterious  cave,  her  heart.  To  have 
been  for  a  moment,  like  Ashman,  done  for  good  and 
all  with  material  things,  and  living  the  white  life 
where  are  no  barriers  between  man  and  woman. 
The  smile  on  her  lips  so  baffled  him,  puffed  there  by 
her  spirit,  as  a  first  flower  is  puffed  through  the  sur- 
face of  earth  to  mock  at  the  spring  winds.  How 
tell  what  it  signified!  Yet  he  rather  prided  himself 
on  his  knowledge  of  women,  of  whom  he  had  seen 
something.  But  all  he  found  to  say  was: 


1 86  THE  PATRICIAN 

"I'm  glad  of  this  chance." 

Then  suddenly  looking  up,  he  found  her  strangely 
pale  and  quivering. 

"I  shall  see  you  in  London!"  she  said;  and,  touch- 
ing her  horse  with  her  whip,  without  looking  back, 
she  rode  away  over  the  hill. 

Courtier  returned  to  the  moor  road,  and  getting 
into  the  car,  muttered: 

"Faster,  please,  Frithl"  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXII 

POLLING  was  already  in  brisk  progress  when  Cour- 
tier arrived  in  Bucklandbury;  and  partly  from  a  not 
unnatural  interest  in  the  result,  partly  from  a  half- 
unconscious  clinging  to  the  chance  of  catching  another 
glimpse  of  Barbara,  he  took  his  bag  to  the  hotel, 
determined  to  stay  for  the  announcement  of  the  poll. 
Strolling  out  into  the  High  Street  he  began  observing 
the  humours  of  the  day.  The  bloom  of  political  be- 
lief had  long  been  brushed  off  the  wings  of  one  who 
had  so  flown  the  world's  winds.  He  had  seen  too 
much  of  more  vivid  colours  to  be  capable  now  of 
venerating  greatly  the  dull  and  dubious  tints  of  blue 
and  yellow.  They  left  him  feeling  extremely  philo- 
sophic. Yet  it  was  impossible  to  get  away  from 
them,  for  the  very  world  that  day  seemed  blue  and 
yellow,  nor  did  the  third  colour  of  red  adopted  by 
both  sides  afford  any  clear  assurance  that  either 
could  see  virtue  in  the  other;  rather,  it  seemed  to 
symbolize  the  desire  of  each  to  have  his  enemy's 
blood.  But  Courtier  soon  observed  by  the  looks 
cast  at  his  own  detached,  and  perhaps  sarcastic,  face, 
that  even  more  hateful  to  either  side  than  its  an- 
tagonist, was  the  philosophic  eye.  Unanimous  was 
the  longing  to  heave  half  a  brick  at  it  whenever 

187 


1 88  THE  PATRICIAN 

it  showed  itself.    With  its  d d  impartiality,  its 

habit  of  looking  through  the  integument  of  things  to 
see  if  there  might  be  anything  inside,  he  felt  that 
they  regarded  it  as  the  real  adversary — the  eternal 
foe  to  all  the  little  fat  'facts,'  who,  dressed  up  in  blue 
and  yellow,  were  swaggering  and  staggering,  calling 
each  other  names,  wiping  each  other's  eyes,  blood- 
ing each  other's  noses.  To  these  little  solemn  deli- 
cious creatures,  all  front  and  no  behind,  the  philo- 
sophic eye,  with  its  habit  of  looking  round  the  corner, 
was  clearly  detestable.  The  very  yellow  and  very 
blue  bodies  of  these  roistering  small  warriors  with 
their  hands  on  their  tin  swords  and  their  lips  on  their 
tin  trumpets,  started  up  in  every  window  and  on 
every  wall  confronting  each  citizen  in  turn,  persuad- 
ing him  that  they  and  they  alone  were  taking  him 
to  Westminster.  Nor  had  they  apparently  for  the 
most  part  much  trouble  with  electors,  who,  finding 
uncertainty  distasteful,  passionately  desired  to  be 
assured  that  the  country  could  at  once  be  saved  by 
little  yellow  facts  or  little  blue  facts,  as  the  case 
might  be;  who  had,  no  doubt,  a  dozen  other  good 
reasons  for  being  on  the  one  side  or  the  other;  as, 
for  instance,  that  their  father  had  been  so  before 
them;  that  their  bread  was  buttered  yellow  or  but- 
tered blue ;  that  they  had  been  on  the  other  side  last 
time;  that  they  had  thought  it  over  and  made  up 
their  minds;  that  they  had  innocent  blue  or  naive 
yellow  beer  within;  that  his  lordship  was  the  man; 
or  that  the  words  proper  to  their  mouths  were 


THE  PATRICIAN  189 

'Chilcox  for  Bucklandbury';  and,  above  all,  the 
one  really  creditable  reason,  that,  so  far  as  they 
could  tell  with  the  best  of  their  intellect  and  feel- 
ings, the  truth  at  the  moment  was  either  blue  or 
yellow. 

The  narrow  high  street  was  thronged  with  voters. 
Tall  policemen  stationed  there  had  nothing  to  do. 
The  certainty  of  all,  that  they  were  going  to  win, 
seemed  to  keep  everyone  in  good  humour.  There 
was  as  yet  no  need  to  break  anyone's  head,  for 
though  the  sharpest  lookout  was  kept  for  any  signs 
of  the  philosophic  eye,  it  was  only  to  be  found — 
outside  Courtier — in  the  perambulators  of  babies,  in 
one  old  man  who  rode  a  bicycle  waveringly  along  the 
street  and  stopped  to  ask  a  policeman  what  was  the 
matter  in  the  town,  and  in  two  rather  green-faced 
fellows  who  trundled  barrows  full  of  favours  both 
blue  and  yellow. 

But  though  Courtier  eyed  the  'facts'  with  such 
suspicion,  the  keenness  of  everyone  about  the  busi- 
ness struck  him  as  really  splendid.  They  went  at  it 
with  a  will.  Having  looked  forward  to  it  for  months, 
they  were  going  to  look  back  on  it  for  months.  It 
was  evidently  a  religious  ceremony,  summing  up 
most  high  feelings;  and  this  seemed  to  one  who  was 
himself  a  man  of  action,  natural,  perhaps  pathetic, 
but  certainly  no  matter  for  scorn. 

It  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon  when  there 
came  debouching  into  the  high  street  a  long  string  of 
sandwichmen,  each  bearing  before  and  behind  him  a 


i  go  THE  PATRICIAN 

poster  containing  these  words  beautifully  situated  in 
large  dark  blue  letters  against  a  pale  blue  ground: 

"NEW  COMPLICATIONS. 

DANGER  NOT  PAST. 

VOTE  FOR  MILTOUN  AND  THE  GOVERNMENT, 
AND  SAVE  THE  EMPIRE." 

Courtier  stopped  to  look  at  them  with  peculiar 
indignation.  Not  only  did  this  poster  tramp  in 
again  on  his  cherished  convictions  about  Peace,  but 
he  saw  in  it  something  more  than  met  the  unphilo- 
sophic  eye.  It  symbolized  for  him  all  that  was 
catch-penny  in  the  national  life — an  epitaph  on  the 
grave  of  generosity,  unutterably  sad.  Yet  from  a 
Party  point  of  view  what  could  be  more  justifiable  ? 
Was  it  not  desperately  important  that  every  blue 
nerve  should  be  strained  that  day  to  turn  yellow 
nerves,  if  not  blue,  at  all  events  green,  before  night 
fell?  Was  it  not  perfectly  true  that  the  Empire 
could  only  be  saved* by  voting  blue?  Could  they 
help  a  blue  paper  printing  the  words,  'New  com- 
plications,' which  he  had  read  that  morning?  No 
more  than  the  yellows  could  help  a  yellow  journal 
printing  the  words  'Lord  Miltoun's  Evening  Adven- 
ture.' Their  only  business  was  to  win,  ever  fighting 
fair.  The  yellows  had  not  fought  fair,  they  never 
did,  and  one  of  their  most  unfair  tactics  was  the  way 
they  had  of  always  accusing  the  blues  of  unfair  fight- 
ing, an  accusation  truly  ludicrous!  As  for  truth! 


THE  PATRICIAN  191 

That  which  helped  the  world  to  be  blue,  was  ob- 
viously true;  that  which  didn't,  as  obviously  not. 
There  was  no  middle  policy!  The  man  who  saw 
things  neither  was  a  softy,  and  no  proper  citizen. 
And  as  for  giving  the  yellows  credit  for  sincerity — 
the  yellows  never  gave  them  credit!  But  though 
Courtier  knew  all  that,  this  poster  seemed  to  him 
particularly  damnable,  and  he  could  not  for  the  life 
of  him  resist  striking  one  of  the  sandwich-boards 
with  his  cane.  The  resounding  thwack  startled  a 
butcher's  pony  standing  by  the  pavement.  It  reared, 
and  bolted  forward,  with  Courtier,  who  had  naturally 
seized  the  rein,  hanging  on.  A  dog  dashed  past. 
Courtier  tripped  and  fell.  The  pony,  passing  over, 
struck  him  on  the  head  with  a  hoof.  For  a  moment 
he  lost  consciousness;  then  coming  to  himself,  re- 
fused assistance,  and  went  to  his  hotel.  He  felt  very 
giddy,  and,  after  bandaging  a  nasty  cut,  lay  down  on 
his  bed. 

Miltoun,  returning  from  that  necessary  exhibition 
of  himself,  the  crowning  fact,  at  every  polling  centre, 
found  time  to  go  and  see  him. 

"That  last  poster  of  yours!"  Courtier  began,  at 
once. 

"I'm  having  it  withdrawn." 

"It's  done  the  trick — congratulations — you'll  get 
in!" 

"I  knew  nothing  of  it." 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  didn't  suppose  you  did." 

"When  there  is  a  desert,  Courtier,  between  a  man 
and  the  sacred  city,  he  doesn't  renounce  his  journey 


I92  THE  PATRICIAN 

because  he  has  to  wash  in  dirty  water  on  the  way. 
The  mob— how  I  loathe  it!" 

There  was  such  pent-up  fury  in  those  words  as  to 
astonish  even  one  whose  life  had  been  passed  in  con- 
flict with  majorities. 

"I  hate  its  mean  stupidities,  I  hate  the  sound  of  its 
voice,  and  the  look  on  its  face — it's  so  ugly,  it's  so 
little.  Courtier,  I  suffer  purgatory  from  the  thought 
that  I  shall  scrape  in  by  the  votes  of  the  mob.  There 
is  sin  in  using  this  creature  and  I  am  expiating  it." 

To  this  strange  outburst,  Courtier  at  first  made  no 
reply. 

"You've  been  working  too  hard,"  he  said  at  last, 
"you're  off  your  balance.  After  all,  the  mob's  made 
up  of  men  like  you  and  me." 

"No,  Courtier,  the  mob  is  not  made  up  of  men  like 
you  and  me.  If  it  were  it  would  not  be  the  mob." 

"It  looks,"  Courtier  answered  gravely,  "as  if  you 
had  no  business  in  this  galley.  I've  always  steered 
clear  of  it  myself." 

"You  follow  your  feelings.  I  have  not  that 
happiness." 

So  saying,  Miltoun  turned  to  the  door. 

Courtier's  voice  pursued  him  earnestly. 

"Drop  your  politics — if  you  feel  like  this  about 
them;  don't  waste  your  life  following  whatever  it  is 
you  follow;  don't  waste  hers!" 

But  Miltoun  did  not  answer. 

It  was  a  wondrous  still  night,  when,  a  few  minutes 
before  twelve,  with  his  forehead  bandaged  under  his 
hat,  the  champion  of  lost  causes  left  the  hotel  and 


THE  PATRICIAN  193 

made  his  way  towards  the  Grammar  School  for  the 
declaration  of  the  poll.  A  sound  as  of  some  monster 
breathing  guided  him,  till,  from  a  steep  empty  street 
he  came  in  sight  of  a  surging  crowd,  spread  over  the 
town  square,  like  a  dark  carpet  patterned  by  splashes 
of  lamplight.  High  up  above  that  crowd,  on  the 
little  peaked  tower  of  the  Grammar  School,  a  brightly 
lighted  clock  face  presided;  and  over  the  passionate 
hopes  in  those  thousands  of  hearts  knit  together  by 
suspense  the  sky  had  lifted,  and  showed  no  cloud 
between  them  and  the  purple  fields  of  air.  To 
Courtier  descending  towards  the  square,  the  swaying 
white  faces,  turned  all  one  way,  seemed  like  the  heads 
of  giant  wild  flowers  in  a  dark  field,  shivered  by  wind. 
The  night  had  charmed  away  the  blue  and  yellow 
facts,  and  breathed  down  into  that  throng  the  spirit 
of  emotion.  And  he  realized  all  at  once  the  beauty 
and  meaning  of  this  scene — expression  of  the  quiver- 
ing forces,  whose  perpetual  flux,  controlled  by  the 
Spirit  of  Balance,  was  the  soul  of  the  world.  Thou- 
sands of  hearts  with  the  thought  of  self  lost  in  one 
over-mastering  excitement! 

An  old  man  with  a  long  grey  beard,  standing  close 
to  his  elbow,  murmured: 

"'Tis  anxious  work — I  wouldn't  ha'  missed  this 
for  anything  in  the  world." 

"Fine,  eh?"  answered  Courtier. 

"Aye,"  said  the  old  man,  "'tis  fine.  I've  not  seen 
the  like  o'  this  since  the  great  year — forty-eight. 
There  they  are — the  aristocrats!" 

Following  the  direction  of  that  skinny  hand  Cour- 


194  THE  PATRICIAN 

tier  saw  on  a  balcony  Lord  and  Lady  Valleys,  side 
by  side,  looking  steadily  down  at  the  crowd.  There 
too,  leaning  against  a  window  and  talking  to  some- 
one behind,  was  Barbara.  The  old  man  went  on 
muttering,  and  Courtier  could  see  that  his  eyes  had 
grown  very  bright,  his  whole  face  transfigured  by 
intense  hostility;  he  felt  drawn  to  this  old  creature, 
thus  moved  to  the  very  soul.  Then  he  saw  Barbara 
looking  down  at  him,  with  her  hand  raised  to  her 
temple  to  show  that  she  saw  his  bandaged  head.  He 
had  the  presence  of  mind  not  to  lift  his  hat. 

The  old  man  spoke  again. 

"You  wouldn't  remember  forty-eight,  I  suppose. 
There  was  a  feeling  in  the  people  then — we  would  ha' 
died  for  things  in  those  days.  I'm  eighty-four," 
and  he  held  his  shaking  hand  up  to  his  breast,  "but 
the  spirit's  alive  here  yet!  God  send  the  Radical 
gets  in!"  There  was  wafted  from  him  a  scent  as  of 
potatoes. 

Far  behind,  at  the  very  edge  of  the  vast  dark 
throng,  some  voices  began  singing:  "Way  down 
upon  the  Swanee  ribber."  The  tune  floated  forth, 
ceased,  spurted  up  once  more,  and  died. 

Then,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  square  a  stentorian 
(baritone  roared  forth:  "Should  auld  acquaintance 
be  forgot!" 

The  song  swelled,  till  every  kind  of  voice,  from 
treble  to  the  old  Chartist's  quavering  bass,  was 
chanting  it;  here  and  there  the  crowd  heaved  with 
the  movement  of  linked  arms.  Courtier  found  the 
soft  fingers  of  a  young  woman  in  his  right  hand,  the 


THE  PATRICIAN  195 

old  Chartist's  dry  trembling  paw  in  his  left.  He 
himself  sang  loudly.  The  grave  and  fearful  music 
sprang  straight  up  into  the  air,  rolled  out  right  and 
left,  and  was  lost  among  the  hills.  But  it  had  no 
sooner  died  away  than  the  same  huge  baritone  yelled : 
"God  save  our  gracious  King!"  The  stature  of  the 
crowd  seemed  at  once  to  leap  up  two  feet,  and  from 
under  that  platform  of  raised  hats  rose  a  stupendous 
shouting. 

"This,"  thought  Courtier,  "is  religion!" 

They  were  singing  even  on  the  balconies;  by  the 
lamplight  he  could  see  Lord  Valleys'  mouth  not 
opened  quite  enough,  as  though  his  voice  were  just 
a  little  ashamed  of  coming  out,  and  Barbara  with 
her  head  flung  back  against  the  pillar,  pouring  out 
her  heart.  No  mouth  in  all  the  crowd  was  silent. 
It  was  as  though  the  soul  of  the  English  people  were 
escaping  from  its  dungeon  of  reserve,  on  the  pinions 
of  that  chant. 

But  suddenly,  like  a  shot  bird  closing  wings,  the 
song  fell  silent  and  dived  headlong  back  to  earth. 
Out  from  under  the  clock-face  had  moved  a  thin 
dark  figure.  More  figures  came  behind.  Courtier 
could  see  Miltoun.  A  voice  far  away  cried:  "Up, 
Chilcox!"  A  huge:  "Hush!"  followed;  then  such 
a  silence,  that  the  sound  of  an  engine  shunting  a  mile 
away  could  be  heard  plainly. 

The  dark  figure  moved  forward,  and  a  tiny  square 
of  paper  gleamed  out  white  against  the  black  of  his 
frock-coat. 

"Ladies    and    gentlemen.    Result    of   the    Poll: 


196  THE  PATRICIAN 

Miltoun — Four  thousand  eight  hundred  and  ninety- 
eight.  Chilcox — Four  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
two." 

The  silence  seemed  to  fall  to  earth,  and  break  into 
a  thousand  pieces.  Through  the  pandemonium  of 
cheers  and  groaning,  Courtier  with  all  his  strength 
forced  himself  towards  the  balcony.  He  could  see 
Lord  Valleys  leaning  forward  with  a  broad  smile; 
Lady  Valleys  passing  her  hand  across  her  eyes;  Bar- 
bara with  her  hand  in  Harbinger's,  looking  straight 
into  his  face.  He  stopped.  The  old  Chartist  was 
still  beside  him,  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks  into  his 
beard. 

Courtier  saw  Miltoun  come  forward,  and  stand, 
unsmiling,  deathly  pale. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

AT  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  nineteenth 
of  July  little  Ann  Shropton  commenced  the  ascent 
of  the  main  staircase  of  Valleys  House,  London. 
She  climbed  slowly,  in  the  very  middle,  an  extremely 
small  white  figure  on  those  wide  and  shining  stairs, 
counting  them  aloud.  Their  number  was  never 
alike  two  days  running,  which  made  them  attractive 
to  one  for  whom  novelty  was  the  salt  of  life. 

Coming  to  that  spot  where  they  branched,  she 
paused  to  consider  which  of  the  two  flights  she  had 
used  last,  and  unable  to  remember,  sat  down.  She 
was  the  bearer  of  a  message.  It  had  been  new  when 
she  started,  but  was  already  comparatively  old,  and 
likely  to  become  older,  in  view  of  a  design  now  con- 
ceived by  her  of  travelling  the  whole  length  of  the 
picture  gallery.  And  while  she  sat  maturing  this 
plan,  sunlight  flooding  through  a  large  window 
drove  a  white  refulgence  down  into  the  heart  of  the 
wide  polished  space  of  wood  and  marble,  whence 
she  had  come.  The  nature  of  little  Ann  habitually 
rejected  fairies  and  all  fantastic  things,  finding  them 
quite  too  much  in  the  air,  and  devoid  of  sufficient 
reality  and  'go';  and  this  refulgence,  almost  un- 
earthly in  its  travelling  glory,  passed  over  her  small 
head  and  played  strangely  with  the  pillars  in  the 

199 


300  THE  PATRICIAN 

hall,  without  exciting  in  her  any  fancies  or  any  sen- 
timent. The  intention  of  discovering  what  was  at 
the  end  of  the  picture  gallery  absorbed  the  whole  of 
her  essentially  practical  and  active  mind.  Deciding 
on  the  left-hand  flight  of  stairs,  she  entered  that 
immensely  long,  narrow,  and — with  blinds  drawn — 
rather  dark  saloon.  She  walked  carefully,  because 
the  floor  was  very  slippery  here,  and  with  a  kind  of 
seriousness  due  partly  to  the  darkness  and  partly  to 
the  pictures.  They  were  indeed,  in  this  light,  rather 
formidable,  those  old  Caradocs — black,  armoured 
creatures,  some  of  them,  who  seemed  to  eye  with 
a  sort  of  burning,  grim,  defensive  greed  the  small 
white  figure  of  their  descendant  passing  along  be- 
tween them.  But  little  Ann,  who  knew  they  were 
only  pictures,  maintained  her  course  steadily,  and 
every  now  and  then,  as  she  passed  one  who  seemed 
to  her  rather  uglier  than  the  others,  wrinkled  her 
sudden  little  nose.  At  the  end,  as  she  had  thought, 
appeared  a  door.  She  opened  it,  and  passed  on  to 
a  landing.  There  was  a  stone  staircase  in  the  corner, 
and  there  were  two  doors.  It  would  be  nice  to  go  up 
the  staircase,  but  it  would  also  be  nice  to  open  the 
doors.  Going  towards  the  first  door,  with  a  little 
thrill,  she  turned  the  handle.  It  was  one  of  those 
rooms,  necessary  in  houses,  for  which  she  had  no 
great  liking;  and  closing  this  door  rather  loudly  she 
opened  the  other  one,  finding  herself  in  a  chamber 
not  resembling  the  rooms  downstairs,  which  were 
all  high  and  nicely  gilded,  but  more  like  where  she 
had  lessons,  low,  and  filled  with  books  and  leather 


THE  PATRICIAN  201 

chairs.  From  the  end  of  the  room  which  she  could 
not  see,  she  heard  a  sound  as  of  someone  kissing 
something,  and  instinct  had  almost  made  her  turn 
to  go  away  when  the  word:  "Hallo!"  suddenly 
opened  her  lips.  And  almost  directly  she  saw  that 
Granny  and  Grandpapa  were  standing  by  the  fire- 
place. Not  knowing  quite  whether  they  were  glad 
to  see  her,  she  went  forward  and  began  at  once: 

"Is  this  where  you  sit,  Grandpapa?" 

"It  is." 

"It's  nice,  isn't  it,  Granny?  Where  does  the 
stone  staircase  go  to?" 

"To  the  roof  of  the  tower,  Ann." 

"Oh!  I  have  to  give  a  message,  so  I  must  go 
now." 

"Sorry  to  lose  you." 

"Yes;  good-bye!" 

Hearing  the  door  shut  behind  her,  Lord  and  Lady 
Valleys  looked  at  each  other  with  a  dubious  smile. 

The  little  interview  which  she  had  interrupted, 
had  arisen  in  this  way. 

Accustomed  to  retire  to  this  quiet  and  homely 
room,  which  was  not  his  official  study  where  he  was 
always  liable  to  the  attacks  of  secretaries,  Lord 
Valleys  had  come  up  here  after  lunch  to  smoke  and 
chew  the  cud  of  a  worry. 

The  matter  was  one  in  connection  with  his  Pen- 
dridny  estate,  in  Cornwall.  It  had  long  agitated  both 
his  agent  and  himself,  and  had  now  come  to  him  for 
final  decision.  The  question  affected  two  villages 
to  the  north  of  the  property,  whose  inhabitants  were 


202  THE  PATRICIAN 

solely  dependent  on  the  working  of  a  large  quarry, 
which  had  for  some  time  been  losing  money. 

A  kindly  man,  he  was  extremely  averse  to  any 
measure  which  would  plunge  his  tenants  into  dis- 
tress, and  especially  in  cases  where  there  had  been 
no  question  of  opposition  between  himself  and  them. 
But,  reduced  to  its  essentials,  the  matter  stood  thus: 
Apart  from  that  particular  quarry  the  Pendridny 
estate  was  not  only  a  going,  but  even  a  profitable 
concern,  supporting  itself  and  supplying  some  of  the 
sinews  of  war  towards  Valleys  House  and  the  racing 
establishment  at  Newmarket  and  other  general  ex- 
penses; with  this  quarry  still  running,  allowing  for 
the  upkeep  of  Pendridny,  and  the  provision  of  pen- 
sions to  superannuated  servants,  it  was  rather  the 
other  way. 

Sitting  there,  that  afternoon,  smoking  his  favourite 
pipe,  he  had  at  last  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  close  down.  He  had  not 
made  this  resolution  lightly;  though,  to  do  him  jus- 
tice, the  knowledge  that  the  decision  would  be  bound 
to  cause  an  outcry  in  the  local,  and  perhaps  the 
National,  Press,  had  secretly  rather  spurred  him  on 
to  the  resolve  than  deterred  him  from  it.  He  felt  as 
if  he  were  being  dictated  to  in  advance,  and  he  did 
not  like  dictation.  To  have  to  deprive  these  poor 
people  of  their  immediate  living  was,  he  knew,  a 
good  deal  more  irksome  to  him  than  to  those  who 
would  certainly  make  a  fuss  about  it,  his  conscience 
was  clear,  and  he  could  discount  that  future  outcry 
se  mere  Party  spite.  He  had  very  honestly  tried  to 


THE  PATRICIAN  203 

examine  the  thing  all  round;  and  had  reasoned  thus: 
If  I  keep  this  quarry  open,  I  am  really  admitting 
the  principle  of  pauperization,  since  I  naturally  look 
to  each  of  my  estates  to  support  its  own  house, 
grounds,  shooting,  and  to  contribute  towards  the 
support  of  this  house,  and  my  family,  and  racing 
stable,  and  all  the  people  employed  about  them  both. 

To  allow  any  business  to  be  run  on  my  estates 
which  does  not  contribute  to  the  general  upkeep,  is 
to  protect  and  really  pauperize  a  portion  of  my 
tenants  at  the  expense  of  the  rest;  it  must  therefore 
be  false  economics  and  a  secret  sort  of  socialism. 
Further,  if  logically  followed  out,  it  might  end  in 
my  ruin,  and  to  allow  that,  though  I  might  not  per- 
sonally object,  would  be  to  imply  that  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  I  am  by  virtue  of  my  traditions  and  train- 
ing, the  best  machinery  through  which  the  State  can 
work  to  secure  the  welfare  of  the  people.  .  .  . 

When  he  had  reached  that  point  in  his  considera- 
tion of  the  question,  his  mind,  or  rather  perhaps,  his 
essential  self,  had  not  unnaturally  risen  up  and  said : 
Which  is  absurd! 

Impersonality  was  in  fashion,  and  as  a  rule  he 
believed  in  thinking  impersonally.  There  was  a 
point,  however,  where  the  possibility  of  doing  so 
ceased,  without  treachery  to  oneself,  one's  order, 
and  the  country.  And  to  the  argument  which  he 
was  quite  shrewd  enough  to  put  to  himself,  sooner 
than  have  it  put  by  anyone  else,  that  it  was  dispro- 
portionate for  a  single  man  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen 
to  be  able  to  dispose  of  the  livelihood  of  hundreds 


204  THE  PATRICIAN 

whose  senses  and  feelings  were  similar  to  his  own- 
he  had  answered:  "If  /  didn't,  some  plutocrat  or 
company  would — or,  worse  still,  the  State!"  Co- 
operative enterprise  being,  in  his  opinion,  foreign  to 
the  spirit  of  the  country,  there  was,  so  far  as  he  could 
see,  no  other  alternative.  Facts  were  facts  and  not 
to  be  got  over! 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  the  necessity  for  the  de- 
cision made  him  sorry,  for  if  he  had  no  great  sense 
of  proportion,  he  was  at  least  humane. 

He  was  still  smoking  his  pipe  and  staring  at  a  sheet 
of  paper  covered  with  small  figures  when  his  wife 
entered.  Though  she  had  come  to  ask  his  advice  on 
a  very  different  subject,  she  saw  at  once  that  he  was 
vexed,  and  said: 

"What's  the  matter,  Geoff?" 

Lord  Valleys  rose,  went  to  the  hearth,  deliberately 
tapped  out  his  pipe,  then  held  out  to  her  the  sheet  of 
paper. 

"That  quarry!    Nothing  for  it — must  go!" 

Lady  Valleys'  face  changed. 

"Oh,  no!    It  will  mean  such  dreadful  distress." 

Lord  Valleys  stared  at  his  nails.  "It's  putting  a 
drag  on  the  whole  estate,"  he  said. 

"I  know,  but  how  could  we  face  the  people — I 
should  never  be  able  to  go  down  there.  And  most  of 
them  have  such  enormous  families." 

Since  Lord  Valleys  continued  to  bend  on  his  nails 
that  slow,  thought-forming  stare,  she  went  on  earn- 
estly : 

"Rather  than  that  I'd  make  sacrifices.    I'd  sooitta: 


THE  PATRICIAN  205 

Pendridny  were  let  than  throw  all  those  people  out 
of  work.  I  suppose  it  would  let." 

"Let?    Best  woodcock  shooting  in  the  world." 

Lady  Valleys,  pursuing  her  thoughts,  went  on: 

"In  time  we  might  get  the  people  drafted  into 
other  things.  Have  you  consulted  Miltoun?" 

"No,"  said  Lord  Valleys  shortly,  "and  don't 
mean  to — he's  too  unpractical." 

"He  always  seems  to  know  what  he  wants  very 
well." 

"I  tell  you,"  repeated  Lord  Valleys,  "Miltoun's 
no  good  in  a  matter  of  this  sort — he  and  his  ideas 
throw  back  to  the  Middle  Ages." 

Lady  Valleys  went  closer,  and  took  him  by  the 
lapels  of  his  collar. 

"Geoff — really,  to  please  me;  some  other  way!" 

Lord  Valleys  frowned,  staring  at  her  for  some 
time;  and  at  last  answered: 

"To  please  you — I'll  leave  it  over  another  year." 

"You  think  that's  better  than  letting?" 

"I  don't  like  the  thought  of  some  outsider  there. 
Time  enough  to  come  to  that  if  we  must.  Take  it 
as  my  Christmas  present." 

Lady  Valleys,  rather  flushed,  bent  forward  and 
kissed  his  ear. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  little  Ann  had  entered. 

When  she  was  gone,  and  they  had  exchanged  that 
dubious  look,  Lady  Valleys  said: 

"  I  came  about  Babs.  I  don't  know  what  to  make 
of  her  since  we  came  up.  She's  not  putting  her 
heart  into  things." 


206  THE  PATRICIAN 

Lord  Valleys  answered  almost  sulkily: 

"It's  the  heat  probably — or  Claud  Harbinger." 
In  spite  of  his  easy-going  parentalism,  he  disliked 
the  thought  of  losing  the  child  whom  he  so  affec- 
tionately admired. 

"Ah!"  said  Lady  Valleys  slowly,"Fm  not  so  sure." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"There's  something  queer  about  her.  I'm  by  no 
means  certain  she  hasn't  got  some  sort  of  feeling  for 
that  Mr.  Courtier." 

"What!"  said  Lord  Valleys,  growing  most  un- 
philosophically  red. 

"Exactly!" 

"Confound  it,  Gertrude,  Miltoun's  business  was 
quite  enough  for  one  year." 

"For  twenty,"  murmured  Lady  Valleys.  "I'm 
watching  her.  He's  going  to  Persia,  they  say." 

"And  leaving  his  bones  there,  I  hope,"  muttered 
Lord  Valleys.  "Really,  it's  too  much.  I  should 
think  you're  all  wrong,  though." 

Lady  Valleys  raised  her  eyebrows.  Men  were 
very  queer  about  such  things!  Very  queer  and 
worse  than  helpless! 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  must  go  to  my  meeting.  I'll 
take  her,  and  see  if  I  can  get  at  something,"  and  she 
went  away. 

It  was  the  inaugural  meeting  of  the  Society  for  the 
Promotion  of  the  Birth  Rate,  over  which  she  had 
promised  to  preside.  The  scheme  was  one  in  which 
she  had  been  prominent  from  the  start,  appealing  as 
it  did  to  her  large  and  full-blooded  nature.  Many 


THE  PATRICIAN  207 

movements,  to  which  she  found  it  impossible  to  re- 
fuse her  name,  had  in  themselves  but  small  attrac- 
tion; and  it  was  a  real  comfort  to  feel  something 
approaching  enthusiasm  for  one  branch  of  her  public 
work.  Not  that  there  was  any  academic  consistency 
about  her  in  the  matter,  for  in  private  life  amongst 
her  friends  she  was  not  narrowly  dogmatic  on  the 
duty  of  wives  to  multiply  exceedingly.  She  thought 
imperially  on  the  subject,  without  bigotry.  Large, 
healthy  families,  in  all  cases  save  individual  ones! 
The  prime  idea  at  the  back  of  her  mind  was — Na- 
tional Expansion!  Her  motto,  and  she  intended  if 
possible  to  make  it  the  motto  of  the  League,  was: 
"De  Vaudace,  et  encore  de  Vaudace!"  It  was  a 
question  of  the  full  realization  of  the  nation.  She 
had  a  true,  and  in  a  sense  touching  belief  in  'the 
flag,'  apart  from  what  it  might  cover.  It  was  her 
idealism.  "You  may  talk,"  she  would  say,  "as 
much  as  you  like  about  directing  national  life  in 
accordance  with  social  justice!  What  does  the  na- 
tion care  about  social  justice?  The  thing  is  much 
bigger  than  that.  It's  a  matter  of  sentiment.  We 
must  expand!" 

On  the  way  to  the  meeting,  occupied  with  her 
speech,  she  made  no  attempt  to  draw  Barbara  into 
conversation.  That  must  wait.  The  child,  though 
languid,  and  pale,  was  looking  so  beautiful  that  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  have  her  support  in  such  a  movement. 

In  a  little  dark  room  behind  the  hall  the  Com- 
mittee were  already  assembled,  and  they  went  at 
once  on  to  the  platform. 


CHAPTER  II 

UNMOVED  by  the  stares  of  the  audience,  Barbara 
sat  absorbed  in  moody  thoughts. 

Into  the  three  weeks  since  Miltoun's  election  there 
had  been  crowded  such  a  multitude  of  functions  that 
she  had  found,  as  it  were,  no  time,  no  energy  to  know 
where  she  stood  with  herself.  Since  that  morning 
in  the  stable,  when  he  had  watched  her  with  the 
horse  Hal,  Harbinger  had  seemed  to  live  only  to  be 
close  to  her.  And  the  consciousness  of  his  passion 
gave  her  a  tingling  sense  of  pleasure.  She  had  been 
riding  and  dancing  with  him,  and  sometimes  this 
had  been  almost  blissful.  But  there  were  times  too, 
when  she  felt — though  always  with  a  certain  con- 
tempt of  herself,  as  when  she  sat  on  that  sunwarmed 
stone  below  the  tor — a  queer  dissatisfaction,  a  long- 
ing for  something  outside  a  world  where  she  had  to 
invent  her  own  starvations  and  simplicities,  to  make- 
believe  in  earnestness. 

She  had  seen  Courtier  three  times.  Once  he  had 
come  to  dine,  in  response  to  an  invitation  from  Lady 
Valleys  worded  in  that  charming,  almost  wistful 
style,  which  she  had  taught  herself  to  use  to  those  be- 
low her  in  social  rank,  especially  if  they  were  intel- 
ligent; once  to  the  Valleys  House  garden  party;  and, 
next  day,  having  told  him  what  time  she  would  be 

208 


THE  PATRICIAN  209 

riding,  she  had  found  him  in  the  Row,  not  mounted, 
but  standing  by  the  rail  just  where  she  must  pass, 
with  that  look  on  his  face  of  mingled  deference  and 
ironic  self -containment,  of  which  he  was  a  master.  It 
appeared  that  he  was  leaving  England;  and  to  her 
questions  why,  and  where,  he  had  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  Up  on  this  dusty  platform,  in  the  hot 
bare  hall,  facing  all  those  people,  listening  to  speeches 
whose  sense  she  was  too  languid  and  preoccupied  to 
take  in,  the  whole  medley  of  thoughts,  and  faces 
round  her,  and  the  sound  of  the  speakers'  voices, 
formed  a  kind  of  nightmare,  out  of  which  she  noted 
with  extreme  exactitude  the  colour  of  her  mother's 
neck  beneath  a  large  black  hat,  and  the  expression 
on  the  face  of  a  Committee  man  to  the  right,  who 
was  biting  his  fingers  under  cover  of  a  blue  paper. 
She  realized  that  someone  was  speaking  amongst  the 
audience,  casting  forth,  as  it  were,  small  bunches  of 
words.  She  could  see  him — a  little  man  in  a  black 
coat,  with  a  white  face  which  kept  jerking  up  and 
down. 

"I  feel  that  this  is  terrible,"  she  heard  him  say; 
"I  feel  that  this  is  blasphemy.  That  we  should  try 
to  tamper  with  the  greatest  force,  the  greatest  and 
the  most  sacred  and  secret — force,  that — that  moves 
in  the  world,  is  to  me  horrible.  I  cannot  bear  to 
listen;  it  seems  to  make  everything  so  small!"  She 
saw  him  sit  down,  and  her  mother  rising  to  answer. 

"We  must  all  sympathize  with  the  sincerity  and 
to  a  certain  extent  with  the  intention  of  our  friend  in 
the  body  of  the  hall.  But  we  must  ask  ourselves: 


210  THE  PATRICIAN 

Have  we  the  right  to  allow  ourselves  the  luxury  of 
private  feelings  in  a  matter  which  concerns  the  na- 
tional expansion.  We  must  not  give  way  to  senti- 
ment. Our  friend  in  the  body  of  the  hall  spoke — he 
will  forgive  me  for  saying  so — like  a  poet,  rather  than 
a  serious  reformer.  I  am  afraid  that  if  we  let  our- 
selves drop  into  poetry,  the  birth  rate  of  this  country 
will  very  soon  drop  into  poetry  too.  And  that  I 
think  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  contemplate  with 
folded  hands.  The  resolution  I  was  about  to  pro- 
pose when  our  friend  in  the  body  of  the  hall " 

But  Barbara's  attention  had  wandered  off  again 
into  that  queer  medley  of  thoughts,  and  feelings,  out 
of  which  the  little  man  had  so  abruptly  roused  her. 
Then  she  realized  that  the  meeting  was  breaking  up, 
and  her  mother  saying: 

"Now,  my  dear,  it's  hospital  day.  We've  just 
time." 

When  they  were  once  more  in  the  car,  she  leaned 
back  very  silent,  watching  the  traffic. 

Lady  Valleys  eyed  her  sidelong. 

"What  a  little  bombshell,"  she  said,  "from  that 
small  person!  He  must  have  got  in  by  mistake.  I 
hear  Mr.  Courtier  has  a  card  for  Helen  Gloucester's 
ball  to-night,  Babs." 

"Poor  man!" 

"  You  will  be  there,"  said  Lady  Valleys  dryly. 

Barbara  drew  back  into  her  corner. 

"Don't  tease  me,  Mother!" 

An  expression  of  compunction  crossed  Lady  Val- 
leys' face;  she  tried  to  possess  herself  of  Barbara's 


THE  PATRICIAN  211 

hand.  But  that  languid  hand  did  not  return  her 
squeeze. 

"I  know  the  mood  you're  in,  dear.  It  wants  all 
one's  pluck  to  shake  it  off;  don't  let  it  grow  on  you. 
You'd  better  go  down  to  Uncle  Dennis  to-morrow. 
You've  been  overdoing  it." 

Barbara  sighed. 

"I  wish  it  were  to-morrow." 

The  car  had  stopped,  and  Lady  Valleys  said: 

"Will  you  come  in,  or  are  you  too  tired?  It 
always  does  them  good  to  see  you." 

"You're  twice  as  tired  as  me,"  Barbara  answered; 
"of  course  I'll  come." 

At  the  entrance  of  the  two  ladies,  there  rose  at 
once  a  faint  buzz  and  murmur.  Lady  Valleys, 
whose  ample  presence  radiated  suddenly  a  business- 
like and  cheery  confidence,  went  to  a  bedside  and 
sat  down.  But  Barbara  stood  in  a  thin  streak  of 
the  July  sunlight,  uncertain  where  to  begin,  amongst 
the  faces  turned  towards  her.  The  poor  dears 
looked  so  humble,  and  so  wistful,  and  so  tired. 
There  was  one  lying  quite  flat,  who  had  not  even 
raised  her  head  to  see  who  had  come  in.  That 
slumbering,  pale,  high  cheek-boned  face  had  a 
frailty  as  if  a  touch,  a  breath,  would  shatter  it;  a 
wisp  of  the  blackest  hair,  finer  than  silk,  lay  across 
the  forehead;  the  closed  eyes  were  deep  sunk;  one 
hand,  scarred  almost  to  the  bone  with  work,  rested 
above  her  breast.  She  breathed  between  lips  which 
had  no  colour.  About  her,  sleeping,  was  a  kind  of 
beauty.  And  there  came  over  the  girl  a  queer  rush 


212  THE  PATRICIAN 

of  emotion.  The  sleeper  seemed  so  apart  from 
everything  there,  from  all  the  formality  and  stiffness 
of  the  ward.  To  look  at  her  swept  away  the  languid, 
hollow  feeling  with  which  she  had  come  in ;  it  made 
her  think  of  the  tors  at  home,  when  the  wind  was 
blowing,  and  all  was  bare,  and  grand,  and  some- 
times terrible.  There  was  something  elemental  in 
that  still  sleep.  And  the  old  lady  in  the  next  bed, 
with  a  brown  wrinkled  face  and  bright  black  eyes 
brimful  of  life,  seemed  almost  vulgar  beside  such 
remote  tranquillity,  while  she  was  telling  Barbara 
that  a  little  bunch  of  heather  in  the  better  half  of  a 
soap-dish  on  the  window-sill  had  come  from  Wales, 
because,  as  she  explained:  "My  mother  was  born 
in  Stirling,  dearie;  so  I  likes  a  bit  of  heather,  though 
I  never  been  out  o'  Bethnal  Green  meself." 

But  when  Barbara  again  passed,  the  sleeping 
woman  was  sitting  up,  and  looked  but  a  poor  ordi- 
nary thing — her  strange  fragile  beauty  all  withdrawn. 

It  was  a  relief  when  Lady  Valleys  said : 

"My  dear,  my  Naval  Bazaar  at  five-thirty;  and 
while  I'm  there  you  must  go  home  and  have  a  rest, 
and  freshen  yourself  up  for  the  evening.  We  dine  at 
Plassey  House." 

The  Duchess  of  Gloucester's  Ball,  a  function  which 
no  one  could  very  well  miss,  had  been  fixed  for  this 
late  date  owing  to  the  Duchess's  announced  desire 
to  prolong  the  season  and  so  help  the  hackney  cab- 
men; and  though  everybody  sympathized,  it  had 
been  felt  by  most  that  it  would  be  simpler  to  go  away, 
motor  up  on  the  day  of  the  Ball,  and  motor  down 


THE  PATRICIAN  213 

again  on  the  following  morning.  And  throughout 
the  week  by  which  the  season  was  thus  prolonged,  in 
long  rows  at  the  railway  stations,  and  on  their  stands, 
the  hackney  cabmen,  unconscious  of  what  was  being 
done  for  them,  waited,  patient  as  their  horses.  But 
since  everybody  was  making  this  special  effort,  an 
exceptionally  large,  exclusive,  and  brilliant  company 
reassembled  at  Gloucester  House. 

In  the  vast  ballroom  over  the  medley  of  entwined 
revolving  couples,  punkahs  had  been  fixed,  to  clear 
and  freshen  the  languid  air,  and  these  huge  fans, 
moving  with  incredible  slowness,  drove  a  faint  re- 
freshing draught  down  over  the  sea  of  white  shirt- 
fronts  and  bare  necks,  and  freed  the  scent  from  in- 
numerable flowers. 

Late  in  the  evening,  close  by  one  of  the  great 
clumps  of  bloom,  a  very  pretty  woman  stood  talking 
to  Bertie  Caradoc.  She  was  his  cousin,  Lily  Mal- 
vezin,  sister  of  Geoffrey  Winlow,  and  wife  of  a 
Liberal  peer,  a  charming  creature,  whose  pink 
cheeks,  bright  eyes,  quick  lips,  and  rounded  figure, 
endowed  her  with  the  prettiest  air  of  animation. 
And  while  she  spoke  she  kept  stealing  sly  glances  at 
her  partner,  trying  as  it  were  to  pierce  the  armour 
of  that  self-contained  young  man. 

"No,  my  dear,"  she  said  in  her  mocking  voice, 
"you'll  never  persuade  me  that  Miltoun  is  going 
to  catch  on.  77  est  trap  intransigeant.  Ah!  there's 
Babs!" 

For  the  girl  had  come  gliding  by,  her  eyes  wander- 
ing lazily,  her  lips  just  parted ;  her  neck,  hardly  less 


214  THE  PATRICIAN 

pale  than  her  white  frock;  her  face  pale,  and  marked 
with  languor,  under  the  heavy  coil  of  her  tawny  hair; 
and  her  swaying  body  seeming  with  each  turn  of  the 
waltz  to  be  caught  by  the  arms  of  her  partner  from 
out  of  a  swoon. 

With  that  immobility  of  lips,  learned  by  all  im- 
prisoned in  Society,  Lily  Malvezin  murmured: 

"Who's  that  she's  dancing  with?  Is  it  the  dark 
horse,  Bertie?" 

Through  lips  no  less  immobile  Bertie  answered: 

"Forty  to  one,  no  takers." 

But  those  inquisitive  bright  eyes  still  followed 
Barbara,  drifting  in  the  dance,  like  a  great  water- 
lily  caught  in  the  swirl  of  a  mill  pool ;  and  the  thought 
passed  through  that  pretty  head: 

' *  She's  hooked  him.  It's  naughty  of  Babs,  really ! ' ' 
And  then  she  saw  leaning  against  a  pillar  another 
whose  eyes  also  were  following  those  two;  and  she 
thought:  "H'm!  Poor  Claud — no  wonder  he's  look- 
ing like  that.  Oh!  Babs!" 

By  one  of  the  statues  on  the  terrace  Barbara  and 
her  partner  stood,  where  trees,  disfigured  by  no 
gaudy  lanterns,  offered  the  refreshment  of  their 
darkness  and  serenity. 

Wrapped  in  her  new  pale  languor,  still  breathing 
deeply  from  the  waltz,  she  seemed  to  Courtier  too 
utterly  moulded  out  of  loveliness.  To  what  end 
should  a  man  frame  speeches  to  a  vision !  She  was 
but  an  incarnation  of  beauty  imprinted  on  the  air, 
and  would  fade  out  at  a  touch — like  the  sudden 
ghosts  of  enchantment  that  came  to  one  under  the 


THE  PATRICIAN  215 

blue,  and  the  starlit  snow  of  a  mountain  night,  or  in 
a  birch  wood  all  wistful  golden !  Speech  seemed  but 
desecration!  Besides,  what  of  interest  was  there  for 
him  to  say  in  this  world  of  hers,  so  bewildering  and 
of  such  glib  assurance — this  world  that  was  like  a 
building,  whose  every  window  was  shut  and  had  a 
blind  drawn  down.  A  building  that  admitted  none 
who  had  not  sworn,  as  it  were,  to  believe  it  the  world, 
the  whole  world,  and  nothing  but  the  world,  outside 
which  were  only  the  rubbled  remains  of  what  had 
built  it.  This  world  of  Society,  in  which  he  felt  like 
one  travelling  through  a  desert,  longing  to  meet  a 
fellow-creature ! 

The  voice  of  Harbinger  behind  them  said: 

"Lady  Babs!" 

Long  did  the  punkahs  waft  their  breeze  over  that 
brave-hued  wheel  of  pleasure,  and  the  sound  of  the 
violins  quaver  and  wail  out  into  the  morning.  Then 
quickly,  as  the  spangles  of  dew  vanish  off  grass  when 
the  sun  rises,  all  melted  away;  and  in  the  great  rooms 
were  none  but  flunkeys  presiding  over  the  polished 
surfaces  like  flamingoes  by  some  lakeside  at  dawn. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  BRICK  dower-house  of  the  Fitz-Harolds,  just 
outside  the  little  seaside  town  of  Nettlefold,  sheltered 
the  tranquil  days  of  Lord  Dennis.  In  that  south- 
coast  air,  sanest  and  most  healing  in  all  England,  he 
aged  very  slowly,  taking  little  thought  of  death,  and 
much  quiet  pleasure  in  his  life.  Like  the  tall  old 
house  with  its  high  windows  and  squat  chimneys, 
he  was  marvellously  self-contained.  His  books,  for 
he  somewhat  passionately  examined  old  civilizations, 
and  described  their  habits  from  time  to  time  with  a 
dry  and  not  too  poignant  pen  in  a  certain  old-fash- 
ioned magazine;  his  microscope,  for  he  studied  in- 
fusoria ;  and  the  fishing  boat  of  his  friend  John  Bogle, 
who  had  long  perceived  that  Lord  Dennis  was  the 
biggest  fish  he  ever  caught ;  all  these,  with  occasional 
visitors,  and  little  runs  to  London,  to  Monkland,  and 
other  country  houses,  made  up  the  sum  of  a  life 
which,  if  not  desperately  beneficial,  was  uniformly 
kind  and  harmless,  and,  by  its  notorious  simplicity, 
had  a  certain  negative  influence  not  only  on  his  own 
class  but  on  the  relations  of  that  class  with  the  coun- 
try at  large.  It  was  commonly  said  in  Nettlefold, 
that  he  was  a  gentleman;  if  they  were  all  like  him 
there  wasn't  much  in  all  this  talk  against  the  Lords. 
The  shop  people  and  lodging-house  keepers  felt  that 

ai6 


THE  PATRICIAN  217 

the  interests  of  the  country  were  safer  in  his  hands 
than  in  the  hands  of  people  who  wanted  to  meddle 
with  everything  for  the  good  of  those  who  were  only 
anxious  to  be  let  alone.  A  man  too  who  could  so 
completely  forget  he  was  the  son  of  a  Duke,  that 
other  people  never  forgot  it,  was  the  man  for  their 
money.  It  was  true  that  he  had  never  had  a  say  in 
public  affairs;  but  this  was  overlooked,  because  he 
could  have  had  it  if  he  liked,  and  the  fact  that  he  did 
not  like,  only  showed  once  more  that  he  was  a  gentle- 
man. 

Just  as  he  was  the  one  personality  of  the  little 
town  against  whom  practically  nothing  was  ever 
said,  so  was  his  house  the  one  house  which  defied 
criticism.  Time  had  made  it  utterly  suitable.  The 
ivied  walls,  and  purplish  roof  lichened  yellow  in 
places,  the  quiet  meadows  harbouring  ponies  and 
kine,  reaching  from  it  to  the  sea — all  was  mellow. 
In  truth  it  made  all  the  other  houses  of  the  town 
seem  shoddy — standing  alone  beyond  them,  like  its 
master,  if  anything  a  little  too  aesthetically  remote 
from  common  wants. 

He  had  practically  no  near  neighbours  of  whom 
he  saw  anything,  except  once  in  a  way  young  Har- 
binger three  miles  distant  at  Whitewater.  But  since 
he  had  the  faculty  of  not  being  bored  with  his  own 
society,  this  did  not  worry  him.  Of  local  charity, 
especially  to  the  fishers  of  the  town,  whose  winter 
months  were  nowadays  very  bare  of  profit,  he  was 
prodigal  to  the  verge  of  extravagance,  for  his  income 
was  not  great.  But  in  politics,  beyond  acting  as  the 


2i8  THE  PATRICIAN 

figure-head  of  certain  municipal  efforts,  he  took 
little  or  no  part.  His  Toryism  indeed  was  of  the 
mild  order,  that  had  little  belief  in  the  regeneration 
of  the  country  by  any  means  but  those  of  kindly 
feeling  between  the  classes.  When  asked  how  that 
was  to  be  brought  about,  he  would  answer  with  his 
dry,  slightly  malicious,  suavity,  that  if  you  stirred 
hornets'  nests  with  sticks  the  hornets  would  come 
forth.  Having  no  land,  he  was  shy  of  expressing 
himself  on  that  vexed  question;  but  if  resolutely 
attacked  would  give  utterance  to  some  such  senti- 
ment as  this:  "The  land's  best  in  our  hands  on 
the  whole,  but  we  want  fewer  dogs-in-the-manger 
among  us." 

He  had,  as  became  one  of  his  race,  a  feeling  for 
land,  tender  and  protective,  and  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  its  being  put  out  to  farm  with  that  cold 
Mother,  the  State.  He  was  ironical  over  the  views 
of  Radicals  or  Socialists,  but  disliked  to  hear  such 
people  personally  abused  behind  their  backs.  It 
must  be  confessed,  however,  that  if  contradicted  he 
increased  considerably  the  ironical  decision  of  his 
sentiments.  Withdrawn  from  all  chance  in  public 
life  of  enforcing  his  views  on  others,  the  natural 
aristocrat  within  him  was  forced  to  find  some 
expression. 

Each  year,  towards  the  end  of  July,  he  placed  his 
house  at  the  service  of  Lord  Valleys,  who  found  it  a 
convenient  centre  for  attending  Goodwood. 

It  was  on  the  morning  after  the  Duchess  of 
Gloucester's  Ball,  that  he  received  this  note: 


THE  PATRICIAN  219 

"VALLEYS  HOUSE. 
"DEAREST  UNCLE  DENNIS, 

"May  I  come  down  to  you  a  little  before  time  and  rest? 
London  is  so  terribly  hot.  Mother  has  three  functions  still  to 
stay  for,  and  I  shall  have  to  come  back  again  for  our  last  even- 
ing, the  political  one — so  I  don't  want  to  go  all  the  way  to 
Monkland;  and  anywhere  else,  except  with  you,  would  be 
rackety.  Eustace  looks  so  seedy.  I'll  try  and  bring  him,  if  I 
may.  Granny  is  terribly  well. 

"Best  love,  dear,  from  your 

"BABS." 

The  same  afternoon  she  came,  but  without  Mil- 
toun,  driving  up  from  the  station  in  a  fly.  Lord 
Dennis  met  her  at  the  gate;  and,  having  kissed  her, 
looked  at  her  somewhat  anxiously,  caressing  his 
white  peaked  beard.  He  had  never  yet  known  Babs 
sick  of  anything,  except  when  he  took  her  out  in 
John  Bogle's  boat.  She  was  certainly  looking  pale, 
and  her  hair  was  done  differently — a  fact  disturbing 
to  one  who  did  not  discover  it.  Slipping  his  arm 
through  hers  he  led  her  out  into  a  meadow  still  full 
of  buttercups,  where  an  old  white  pony,  who  had 
carried  her  in  the  Row  twelve  years  ago,  came  up  to 
them  and  rubbed  his  muzzle  against  her  waist.  And 
suddenly  there  rose  in  Lord  Dennis  the  thoroughly 
discomforting  and  strange  suspicion  that,  though  the 
child  was  not  going  to  cry,  she  wanted  time  to  get 
over  the  feeling  that  she  was.  Without  appearing 
to  separate  himself  from  her,  he  walked  to  the  wall 
at  the  end  of  the  field,  and  stood  looking  at  the  sea. 

The  tide  was  nearly  up;  the  South  wind  driving 
over  it  brought  to  him  the  scent  of  the  sea-flowers, 


220  THE  PATRICIAN 

and  the  crisp  rustle  of  little  waves  swimming  almost 
to  his  feet.  Far  out,  where  the  sunlight  fell,  the 
smiling  waters  lay  white  and  mysterious  in  July  haze, 
giving  him  a  queer  feeling.  But  Lord  Dennis,  though 
he  had  his  moments  of  poetic  sentiment,  was  on 
the  whole  quite  able  to  keep  the  sea  in  its  proper 
place — for  after  all  it  was  the  English  Channel; 
and  like  a  good  Englishman  he  recognized  that  if 
you  once  let  things  get  away  from  their  names,  they 
ceased  to  be  facts,  and  if  they  ceased  to  be  facts,  they 
became — the  devil!  In  truth  he  was  not  thinking 
much  of  the  sea,  but  of  Barbara.  It  was  plain  that 
she  was  in  trouble  of  some  kind.  And  the  notion 
that  Babs  could  find  trouble  in  life  was  extraordina- 
rily queer;  for  he  felt,  subconsciously,  what  a  great 
driving  force  of  disturbance  was  necessary  to  pene- 
trate the  hundred  folds  of  the  luxurious  cloak  en- 
wrapping one  so  young  and  fortunate.  It  was  not 
Death;  therefore  it  must  be  Love;  and  he  thought 
at  once  of  that  fellow  with  the  red  moustaches. 
Ideas  were  all  very  well — no  one  would  object  to  as 
many  as  you  liked,  in  their  proper  place — the  dinner- 
table,  for  example.  But  to  fall  in  love,  if  indeed  it 
were  so,  with  a  man  who  not  only  had  ideas,  but  an 
inclination  to  live  up  to  them,  and  on  them,  and  on 
nothing  else,  seemed  to  Lord  Dennis  outre. 

She  had  followed  him  to  the  wall,  and  he  looked 
at  her  dubiously. 

"To  rest  in  the  waters  of  Lethe,  Babs?  By  the 
way,  seen  anything  of  our  friend  Mr.  Courtier? 
Very  picturesque — that  Quixotic  theory  of  life!" 


THE  PATRICIAN  221 

And  in  saying  that,  his  voice  (like  so  many  refined 
voices  which  have  turned  their  backs  on  speculation) 
was  triple-toned — mocking  at  ideas,  mocking  at 
itself  for  mocking  at  ideas,  yet  showing  plainly  that  at 
bottom  it  only  mocked  at  itself  for  mocking  at  ideas, 
because  it  would  be,  as  it  were,  crude  not  to  do  so. 

But  Barbara  did  not  answer  his  question,  and  be- 
gan to  speak  of  other  things.  And  all  that  afternoon 
and  evening  she  talked  away  so  lightly  that  Lord 
Dennis,  but  for  his  instinct,  would  have  been  deceived. 

That  wonderful  smiling  mask — the  inscrutability 
of  Youth — was  laid  aside  by  her  at  night.  Sitting  at 
her  window,  under  the  moon,  'a  gold-bright  moth 
slow-spinning  up  the  sky,'  she  watched  the  darkness 
hungrily,  as  though  it  were  a  great  thought  into  whose 
heart  she  was  trying  to  see.  Now  and  then  she 
stroked  herself,  getting  strange  comfort  out  of  the 
presence  of  her  body.  She  had  that  old  unhappy 
feeliag  of  having  two  selves  within  her.  And  this 
soft  night  full  of  the  quiet  stir  of  the  sea,  and  of  dark 
immensity,  woke  in  her  a  terrible  longing  to  be  at 
one  with  something,  somebody,  outside  herself.  At 
the  Ball  last  night  the  'flying  feeling'  had  seized  on 
her  again;  and  was  still  there — a  queer  manifesta- 
tion of  her  streak  of  recklessness.  And  this  result  of 
her  contacts  with  Courtier,  this  cacoethes  volandi, 
and  feeling  of  clipped  wings,  hurt  her — as  being  for- 
bidden hurts  a  child. 

She  remembered  how  in  the  housekeeper's  room 
at  Monkland  there  lived  a  magpie  who  had  once 
sought  shelter  in  an  orchid-house  from  some  pur- 


222  THE  PATRICIAN 

suer.  As  soon  as  they  thought  him  wedded  to  civil- 
ization, they  had  let  him  go,  to  see  whether  he  would 
come  back.  For  hours  he  had  sat  up  in  a  high  tree, 
and  at  last  come  down  again  to  his  cage;  whereupon, 
fearing  lest  the  rooks  should  attack  him  when  he 
next  took  this  voyage  of  discovery,  they  clipped  one 
of  his  wings.  After  that  the  twilight  bird,  though 
he  lived  happily  enough,  hopping  about  his  cage  and 
the  terrace  which  served  him  for  exercise  yard,  would 
seem  at  times  restive  and  frightened,  moving  his 
wings  as  if  flying  in  spirit,  and  sad  that  he  must  stay 
on  earth. 

So,  too,  at  her  window  Barbara  fluttered  her  wings; 
then,  getting  into  bed,  lay  sighing  and  tossing.  A 
clock  struck  three;  and  seized  by  an  intolerable  im- 
patience at  her  own  discomfort,  she  slipped  a  motor 
coat  over  her  night-gown,  put  on  slippers,  and  stole 
out  into  the  passage.  The  house  was  very  still.  She 
crept  downstairs,  smothering  her  footsteps.  Grop- 
ing her  way  through  the  hall,  inhabited  by  the  thin 
ghosts  of  would-be  light,  she  slid  back  the  chain  of 
the  door,  and  fled  towards  the  sea.  She  made  no 
more  noise  running  in  the  dew,  than  a  bird  following 
the  paths  of  air;  and  the  two  ponies,  who  felt  her 
figure  pass  in  the  darkness,  snuffled,  sending  out  soft 
sighs  of  alarm  amongst  the  closed  buttercups.  She 
climbed  the  wall  over  to  the  beach.  While  she  was 
running,  she  had  fully  meant  to  dash  into  the  sea  and 
cool  herself,  but  it  was  so  black,  with  just  a  thin 
edging  scarf  of  white,  and  the  sky  was  black,  bereft 
of  lights,  waiting  for  the  day! 


THE  PATRICIAN  223 

She  stood,  and  looked.  And  all  the  leapings  and 
pulsings  of  flesh  and  spirit  slowly  died  in  that  wide 
dark  loneliness,  where  the  only  sound  was  the  wist- 
ful breaking  of  small  waves.  She  was  well  used  to 
these  dead  hours — only  last  night,  at  this  very  time, 
Harbinger's  arm  had  been  round  her  in  a  last  waltz! 
But  here  the  dead  hours  had  such  different  faces, 
wide-eyed,  solemn,  and  there  came  to  Barbara, 
staring  out  at  them,  a  sense  that  the  darkness  saw 
her  very  soul,  so  that  it  felt  little  and  timid  within 
her.  She  shivered  in  her  fur-lined  coat,  as  if  almost 
frightened  at  finding  herself  so  marvellously  nothing 
before  that  black  sky  and  dark  sea,  which  seemed 
all  one,  relentlessly  great.  And  crouching  down,  she 
waited  for  the  dawn  to  break. 

It  came  from  over  the  Downs,  sweeping  a  rush 
of  cold  air  on  its  wings,  flighting  towards  the  sea. 
With  it  the  daring  soon  crept  back  into  her  blood. 
She  stripped,  and  ran  down  into  the  dark  water,  fast 
growing  pale.  It  covered  her  jealously,  and  she  set 
to  work  to  swim.  The  water  was  warmer  than  the 
air.  She  lay  on  her  back  and  splashed,  watching  the 
sky  flush.  To  bathe  like  this  in  the  half-dark,  with 
her  hair  floating  out,  and  no  wet  clothes  clinging  to 
her  limbs,  gave  her  the  joy  of  a  child  doing  a  naughty 
thing.  She  swam  out  of  her  depth,  then  scared  at 
her  own  adventure,  swam  in  again  as  the  sun  rose. 

She  dashed  into  her  two  garments,  climbed  the 
wall,  and  scurried  back  to  the  house.  All  her  de- 
jection, and  feverish  uncertainty  were  gone;  she  felt 
keen,  fresh,  terribly  hungry,  and  stealing  into  th« 


224  THE  PATRICIAN 

dark  dining-room,  began  rummaging  for  food.  She 
found  biscuits,  and  was  still  munching,  when  in  the 
open  doorway  she  saw  Lord  Dennis,  a  pistol  in  one 
hand  and  a  lighted  candle  in  the  other.  With  his 
carved  features  and  white  beard  above  an  old  blue 
dressing-gown,  he  looked  impressive,  having  at  the 
moment  a  distinct  resemblance  to  Lady  Casterley, 
as  though  danger  had  armoured  him  in  steel. 

"You  call  this  resting!"  he  said,  dryly;  then, 
looking  at  her  drowned  hair,  added:  "I  see  you 
have  already  entrusted  your  trouble  to  the  waters  of 
Lethe." 

But  without  answer  Barbara  vanished  into  the 
dim  hall  and  up  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHILE  Barbara  was  swimming  to  meet  the  dawn, 
Miltoun  was  bathing  in  those  waters  of  mansuetude 
and  truth  which  roll  from  wall  to  wall  in  the  British 
House  of  Commons. 

In  that  long  debate  on  the  Land  question,  for 
which  he  had  waited  to  make  his  first  speech,  he  had 
already  risen  nine  times  without  catching  the  Speak- 
er's eye,  and  slowly  a  sense  of  unreality  was  creeping 
over  him.  Surely  this  great  Chamber,  where  without 
end  rose  the  small  sound  of  a  single  human  voice,  and 
queer  mechanical  bursts  of  approbation  and  resent- 
ment, did  not  exist  at  all  but  as  a  gigantic  fancy  of 
his  own!  And  all  these  figures  were  figments  of  his 
brain!  And  when  he  at  last  spoke,  it  would  be  him- 
self alone  that  he  addressed !  The  torpid  air  tainted 
with  human  breath,  the  unwinking  stare  of  the  count- 
less lights,  the  long  rows  of  seats,  the  queer  distant 
rounds  of  pale  listening  flesh  perched  up  so  high, 
they  were  all  emanations  of  himself!  Even  the  com- 
ing and  going  in  the  gangway  was  but  the  coming 
and  going  of  little  wilful  parts  of  him !  And  rustling 
deep  down  in  this  Titanic  creature  of  his  fancy  was 
the  murmuration  of  his  own  unspoken  speech,  sweep- 
ing away  the  puff  balls  of  words  flung  up  by  that 
far-away,  small,  varying  voice. 

225 


226  THE  PATRICIAN 

Then,  suddenly  all  that  dream  creature  had  van- 
ished; he  was  on  his  feet,  with  a  thumping  heart, 
speaking. 

Soon  he  had  no  tremors,  only  a  dim  consciousness 
that  his  words  sounded  strange,  and  a  queer  icy 
pleasure  in  flinging  them  out  into  the  silence.  Round 
him  there  seemed  no  longer  men,  only  mouths  and 
eyes.  And  he  had  enjoyment  in  the  feeling  that 
with  these  words  of  his  he  was  holding  those  hun- 
gry mouths  and  eyes  dumb  and  unmoving.  Then 
he  knew  that  he  had  reached  the  end  of  what  he 
had  to  say,  and  sat  down,  remaining  motionless  in 
the  centre  of  a  various  sound,  staring  at  the  back 
of  the  head  in  front  of  him,  with  his  hands  clasped 
round  his  knee.  And  soon,  when  that  little  far- 
away voice  was  once  more  speaking,  he  took  his  hat, 
and  glancing  neither  to  right  nor  left,  went  out. 

Instead  of  the  sensation  of  relief  and  wild  elation 
which  fills  the  heart  of  those  who  have  taken  the  first 
plunge,  Miltoun  had  nothing  in  his  deep  dark  well 
but  the  waters  of  bitterness.  In  truth,  with  the  de- 
livery of  that  speech  he  had  but  parted  with  what 
had  been  a  sort  of  anodyne  to  suffering.  He  had 
only  put  the  fine  point  on  his  conviction,  of  how  vain 
was  his  career  now  that  he  could  not  share  it  with 
Audrey  Noel.  He  walked  slowly  towards  the  Temple , 
along  the  riverside,  where  the  lamps  were  paling  into 
nothingness  before  that  daily  celebration  of  Divinity, 
the  meeting  of  dark  and  light. 

For  Miltoun  was  not  one  of  those  who  take  things 
lying  down;  he  took  things  desperately,  deeply,  and 


THE  PATRICIAN  927 

with  revolt.  He  took  them  like  a  rider  riding  him- 
self, plunging  at  the  dig  of  his  own  spurs,  chafing 
and  wincing  at  the  cruel  tugs  of  his  own  bitt;  bear- 
ing in  his  friendless,  proud  heart  all  the  burden  of 
struggles  which  shallower  or  more  genial  natures 
shared  with  others. 

He  looked  hardly  less  haggard,  walking  home,  than 
some  of  those  homeless  ones  who  slept  nightly  by  the 
river,  as  though  they  knew  that  to  lie  near  one  who 
could  so  readily  grant  oblivion,  alone  could  save 
them  from  seeking  that  consolation.  He  was  per- 
haps unhappier  than  they,  whose  spirits,  at  all 
events,  had  long  ceased  to  worry  them,  having 
oozed  out  from  their  bodies  under  the  foot  of  Life. 

Now  that  Audrey  Noel  was  lost  to  him,  her  love- 
liness and  that  indescribable  quality  which  made 
her  lovable,  floated  before  him,  the  very  torture- 
flowers  of  a  beauty  never  to  be  grasped — yet,  that  he 
could  grasp,  if  he  only  would!  That  was  the  heart 
and  fervour  of  his  suffering.  To  be  grasped  if  he 
only  would !  He  was  suffering,  too,  physically  from 
a  kind  of  slow  fever,  the  result  of  his  wetting  on  the 
day  when  he  last  saw  her.  And  through  that  latent 
fever,  things  and  feelings,  like  his  sensations  in  the 
House  before  his  speech,  were  all  as  it  were  muffled 
in  a  horrible  way,  as  if  they  all  came  to  him  wrapped 
in  a  sort  of  flannel  coating,  through  which  he  could 
not  cut.  And  all  the  time  there  seemed  to  be  within 
him  two  men  at  mortal  grips  with  one  another;  the 
man  of  faith  in  divine  sanction  and  authority,  on 
which  all  his  beliefs  had  hitherto  hinged,  and  a 


228  THE  PATRICIAN 

desperate  warm-blooded  hungry  creature.  He  was 
very  miserable,  craving  strangely  for  the  society  of 
someone  who  could  understand  what  he  was  feeling, 
and,  from  long  habit  of  making  no  confidants,  not 
knowing  how  to  satisfy  that  craving. 

It  was  dawn  when  he  reached  his  rooms;  and,  sure 
that  he  would  not  sleep,  he  did  not  even  go  to  bed, 
but  changed  his  clothes,  made  himself  some  coffee, 
and  sat  down  at  the  window  which  overlooked  the 
flowered  courtyard. 

In  Middle  Temple  Hall  a  Ball  was  still  in  progress, 
though  the  glamour  from  its  Chinese  lanterns  was 
already  darkened  and  gone.  Miltoun  saw  a  man 
and  a  girl,  sheltered  by  an  old  fountain,  sitting  out 
their  last  dance.  Her  head  had  sunk  on  her  partner's 
shoulder;  their  lips  were  joined.  And  there  floated 
up  to  the  window  the  scent  of  heliotrope,  with  the 
tune  of  the  waltz  that  those  two  should  have  been 
dancing.  This  couple  so  stealthily  enlaced,  the 
gleam  of  their  furtively  turned  eyes,  the  whispering 
of  their  lips,  that  stony  niche  below  the  twittering 
sparrows,  so  cunningly  sought  out — it  was  the  world 
he  had  abjured !  When  he  looked  again,  they — like 
a  vision  seen — had  stolen  away  and  gone;  the  music 
too  had  ceased,  there  was  no  scent  of  heliotrope. 
In  the  stony  niche  crouched  a  stray  cat  watching  the 
twittering  sparrows. 

Miltoun  went  out,  and,  turning  into  the  empty 
Strand,  walked  on  without  heeding  where,  till 
towards  five  o'clock  he  found  himself  on  Putney 
Bridge. 


THE  PATRICIAN  229 

He  rested  there,  leaning  over  the  parapet,  looking 
down  at  the  grey  water.  The  sun  was  just  breaking 
through  the  heat  haze;  early  waggons  were  passing, 
and  already  men  were  coming  in  to  work.  To  what 
end  did  the  river  wander  up  and  down ;  and  a  human 
river  flow  across  it  twice  every  day?  To  what  end 
were  men  and  women  suffering  ?  Of  the  full  current 
of  this  life  Miltoun  could  no  more  see  the  aim,  than 
that  of  the  wheeling  gulls  in  the  early  sunlight. 

Leaving  the  bridge  he  made  towards  Barnes  Com- 
mon. The  night  was  still  ensnared  there  on  the 
gorse  bushes  grey  with  cobwebs  and  starry  dewdrops. 
He  passed  a  tramp  family  still  sleeping,  huddled  all 
together.  Even  the  homeless  lay  in  each  other's 
arms! 

From  the  Common  he  emerged  on  the  road  near 
the  gates  of  Ravensham;  turning  in  there,  he  found 
his  way  to  the  kitchen  garden,  and  sat  down  on  a 
bench  close  to  the  raspberry  bushes.  They  were 
protected  from  thieves,  but  at  Miltoun's  approach 
two  blackbirds  flustered  out  through  the  netting  and 
flew  away. 

His  long  figure  resting  so  motionless  impressed  it- 
self on  the  eyes  of  a  gardener,  who  caused  a  report 
to  be  circulated  that  his  young  lordship  was  in  the 
fruit  garden.  It  reached  the  ears  of  Clifton,  who 
himself  came  out  to  see  what  this  might  mean.  The 
old  man  took  his  stand  in  front  of  Miltoun  very 
quietly. 

"You  have  come  to  breakfast,  my  lord?" 

"If  my  grandmother  will  have  me,  Clifton." 


230  THE  PATRICIAN 

"I  understood  your  lordship  was  speaking  last 
night." 

"I  was." 

"You  find  the  House  of  Commons  satisfactory,  I 
hope." 

"Fairly,  thank  you,  Clifton." 

"They  are  not  what  they  were  in  the  great  days  of 
your  grandfather,  I  believe.  He  had  a  very  good 
opinion  of  them.  They  vary,  no  doubt." 

"Tempora  mutantur." 

"  That  is  so.    I  find  quite  a  new  spirit  towards  pub 
lie  affairs.    The  ha'penny  Press;  one  takes  it  in,  but 
one  hardly  approves.    I  shall  be  anxious  to  read  your 
speech.    They  say  a  first  speech  is  a  great  strain." 

"It  is  rather." 

"But  you  had  no  reason  to  be  anxious.  I'm  sure 
it  was  beautiful." 

Miltoun  saw  that  the  old  man's  thin  sallow  cheeks 
had  flushed  to  a  deep  orange  between  his  snow-white 
whiskers. 

"I  have  looked  forward  to  this  day,"  he  stammered, 
"ever  since  I  knew  your  lordship — twenty-eight  years. 
It  is  the  beginning." 

"Or  the  end,  Clifton." 

The  old  man's  face  fell  in  a  look  of  deep  and  con- 
cerned astonishment. 

"No,  no,"  he  said;  "with  your  antecedents,  never." 

Miltoun  took  his  hand. 

"Sorry,  Clifton — didn't  mean  to  shock  you." 

And  for  a  minute  neither  spoke,  looking  at  their 
clasped  hands  as  if  surprised. 


THE  PATRICIAN  231 

"Would  your  lordship  like  a  bath — breakfast  is 
still  at  eight.  I  can  procure  you  a  razor." 

When  Miltoun  entered  the  breakfast  room,  his 
grandmother,  with  a  copy  of  the  Times  in  her  hands, 
was  seated  before  a  grape  fruit,  which,  with  a  shred- 
ded wheat  biscuit,  constituted  her  first  meal.  Her 
appearance  hardly  warranted  Barbara's  description 
of  'terribly  well';  in  truth  she  looked  a  little  white, 
as  if  she  had  been  feeling  the  heat.  But  there  was 
no  lack  of  animation  in  her  little  steel-grey  eyes,  nor 
of  decision  in  her  manner. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  "that  you've  taken  a  line  of  your 
own,  Eustace.  I've  nothing  to  say  against  that;  in 
fact,  quite  the  contrary.  But  remember  this,  my 
dear,  however  you  may  change  you  mustn't  wobble. 
Only  one  thing  counts  in  that  place,  hitting  the  same 
nail  on  the  head  with  the  same  hammer  all  the  time. 
You  aren't  looking  at  all  well." 

Miltoun,  bending  to  kiss  her,  murmured: 

"Thanks,  I'm  all  right." 

"Nonsense,"  replied  Lady  Casterley.  "They  don't 
look  after  you.  Was  your  mother  in  the  House  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Exactly.  And  what  is  Barbara  about?  She 
ought  to  be  seeing  to  you." 

"Barbara  is  down  with  Uncle  Dennis." 

Lady  Casterley  set  her  jaw;  then  looking  her 
grandson  through  and  through,  said: 

"  I  shall  take  you  down  there  this  very  day.  I  shall 
have  the  sea  to  you.  What  do  you  say,  Clifton?" 

"His  lordship  does  look  pale." 


THE  PATRICIAN 

"Have  the  carriage,  and  we'll  go  from  Clapham 
Junction.  Thomas  can  go  in  and  fetch  you  some 
clothes.  Or,  better,  though  I  dislike  them,  we  can 
telephone  to  your  mother  for  a  car.  It's  very  hot  for 
trains.  Arrange  that,  please,  Clifton!" 

To  this  project  Miltoun  raised  no  objection.  And 
all  through  the  drive  he  remained  sunk  in  an  indif- 
ference and  lassitude  which  to  Lady  Casterley  seemed 
in  the  highest  degree  ominous.  For  lassitude,  to  her, 
was  the  strange,  the  unpardonable,  state.  The  little 
great  lady — casket  of  the  aristocratic  principle — was 
permeated  to  the  very  backbone  with  the  instinct  of 
artificial  energy,  of  that  alert  vigour  which  those  who 
have  nothing  socially  to  hope  for  are  forced  to  develop, 
lest  they  should  decay  and  be  again  obliged  to  hope. 
To  speak  honest  truth,  she  could  not  forbear  an  itch 
to  run  some  sharp  and  foreign  substance  into  her 
grandson,  to  rouse  him  somehow,  for  she  knew  the 
reason  of  his  state,  and  was  temperamentally  out  of 
patience  with  such  a  cause  for  backsliding.  Had  it 
been  any  other  of  her  grandchildren  she  would  not 
have  hesitated,  but  there  was  that  in  Miltoun  which 
held  even  Lady  Casterley  in  check,  and  only  once  dur- 
ing the  four  hours  of  travel  did  she  attempt  to  break 
down  his  reserve.  She  did  it  in  a  manner  very  soft 
for  her — was  he  not  of  all  living  things  the  hope  and 
pride  of  her  heart?  Tucking  her  little  thin  sharp 
hand  under  his  arm,  she  said  quietly: 

"My  dear,  don't  brood  over  it.  That  will  never 
do." 

But  Miltoun  removed  her  hand  gently,  and  laid  it 


THE  PATRICIAN  233 

back  on  the  dust  rug,  nor  did  he  answer,  or  show 
other  sign  of  having  heard. 

And  Lady  Casterley,  deeply  wounded,  Dressed  her 
faded  lips  together,  and  said  sharply: 

"Slower,  please.  Frith!" 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  to  Barbara  that  Miltoun  unfolded,  if  but 
little,  the  trouble  of  his  spirit,  lying  that  same  after- 
noon under  a  ragged  tamarisk  hedge  with  the  tide  far 
out.  He  could  never  have  done  this  if  there  had  not 
been  between  them  the  accidental  revelation  of  that 
night  at  Monkland ;  nor  even  then  perhaps  had  he  not 
felt  in  this  young  sister  of  his  the  warmth  of  life  for 
which  he  was  yearning.  In  such  a  matter  as  love 
Barbara  was  the  elder  of  these  two.  For,  besides  the 
motherly  knowledge  of  the  heart  peculiar  to  most 
women,  she  had  the  inherent  woman-of-the-worldli- 
ness  to  be  expected  of  a  daughter  of  Lord  and  Lady 
Valleys.  If  she  herself  were  in  doubt  as  to  the  state 
of  her  affections,  it  was  not  as  with  Miltoun,  on  the 
score  of  the  senses  and  the  heart,  but  on  the  score  of 
her  spirit  and  curiosity,  which  Courtier  had  awakened 
and  caused  to  flap  their  wings  a  little.  She  worried 
over  Miltoun's  forlorn  case;  it  hurt  her  too  to  think 
of  Mrs.  Noel  eating  her  heart  out  in  that  lonely  cot- 
tage. A  sister  so  good  and  earnest  as  Agatha  had 
ever  inclined  Barbara  to  a  rebellious  view  of  morals, 
and  disinclined  her  altogether  to  religion.  And  so, 
she  felt  that  if  those  two  could  not  be  happy  apart, 
they  should  be  happy  together,  in  the  name  of  all  the 
joy  there  was  in  life! 


THE  PATRICIAN  235 

And  while  her  brother  lay  face  to  the  sky  under  the 
tamarisks,  she  kept  trying  to  think  of  how  to  console 
him,  conscious  that  she  did  not  in  the  least  understand 
the  way  he  thought  about  things.  Over  the  fields 
behind,  the  larks  were  hymning  the  promise  of  the 
unripe  corn;  the  foreshore  was  painted  all  colours, 
from  vivid  green  to  mushroom  pink;  by  the  edge  of 
the  blue  sea  little  black  figures  stooped,  gathering 
samphire.  The  air  smelled  sweet  in  the  shade  of  the 
tamarisk;  there  was  ineffable  peace.  And  Barbara, 
covered  by  the  network  of  sunlight,  could  not  help 
impatience  with  a  suffering  which  seemed  to  her  so 
corrigible  by  action.  At  last  she  ventured: 

"Life  is  short,  Eusty!" 

Miltoun's  answer,  given  without  movement,  start- 
led her. 

"Persuade  me  that  it  is,  Babs,  and  I'll  bless  you. 
Tf  the  singing  of  these  larks  means  nothing,  if  that 
blue  up  there  is  a  morass  of  our  invention,  if  we  are 
pettily  creeping  on  furthering  nothing,  if  there's  no 
purpose  in  our  lives,  persuade  me  of  it,  for  God's 
sake!" 

Carried  suddenly  beyond  her  depth,  Barbara  could 
only  put  out  her  hand,  and  say:  "Oh!  don't  take 
things  so  hard!" 

"Since  you  say  that  life  is  short,"  Miltoun  mut- 
tered, with  his  smile,  "you  shouldn't  spoil  it  by 
feeling  pity!  In  old  days  we  went  to  the  Tower 
for  our  convictions.  We  can  stand  a  little  private 
roasting,  I  hope;  or  has  the  sand  run  out  of  us 
altogether?" 


236  THE  PATRICIAN 

Stung  by  his  tone,  Barbara  answered  in  rather  a 
hard  voice: 

"What  we  must  bear,  we  must,  I  suppose.  But 
why  should  we  make  trouble?  That's  what  I  can't 
stand!" 

"O  profound  wisdom!" 

Barbara  flushed. 

"I  love  Life!"  she  said. 

The  galleons  of  the  westering  sun  were  already  sail- 
ing in  a  broad  gold  fleet  straight  for  that  foreshore 
where  the  little  black  stooping  figures  had  not  yet 
finished  their  toil,  the  larks  still  sang  over  the  unripe 
corn — when  Harbinger,  galloping  along  the  sands 
from  Whitewater  to  Sea  House,  came  on  that  silent 
couple  walking  home  to  dinner. 

It  would  not  be  safe  to  say  of  this  young  man  that 
he  readily  diagnosed  a  spiritual  atmosphere,  but  this 
was  the  less  his  demerit,  since  everything  from  his 
cradle  up  had  conspired  to  keep  the  spiritual  ther- 
mometer of  his  surroundings  at  60  in  the  shade. 
And  the  fact  that  his  own  spiritual  thermometer  had 
now  run  up  so  that  it  threatened  to  burst  the  bulb, 
rendered  him  less  likely  than  ever  to  see  what  was 
happening  with  other  people's.  Yet  he  did  notice 
that  Barbara  was  looking  pale,  and — it  seemed — 
sweeter  than  ever.  With  her  eldest  brother  he  always 
somehow  felt  ill  at  ease.  He  could  not  exactly  afford 
to  despise  an  uncompromising  spirit  in  one  of  his  own 
order,  but  he  was  no  more  impervious  than  others 
to  Miltoun's  caustic,  thinly-veiled  contempt  for  the 
commonplace;  and  having  a  full-blooded  belief  in 


THE  PATRICIAN  237 

himself — usual  with  men  of  fine  physique,  whose  lots 
are  so  cast  that  this  belief  can  never  or  almost  never 
be  really  shaken — he  greatly  disliked  the  feeling  of 
being  a  little  looked  down  on.  It  was  an  intense 
relief,  when,  saying  that  he  wanted  a  certain  maga- 
zine, Miltoun  strode  off  into  the  town. 

To  Harbinger,  no  less  than  to  Miltoun  and  Bar- 
bara, last  night  had  been  bitter  and  restless.  The 
sight  of  that  pale  swaying  figure,  with  the  parted  lips, 
whirling  round  in  Courtier's  arms,  had  clung  to  his 
vision  ever  since  the  Ball.  During  his  own  last  dance 
with  her  he  had  been  almost  savagely  silent;  only  by 
a  great  effort  restraining  his  tongue  from  mordant 
allusions  to  that  '  prancing,  red-haired  fellow,'  as  he 
secretly  called  the  champion  of  lost  causes.  In  fact, 
his  sensations  then  and  since  had  been  a  revelation, 
or  would  have  been  if  he  could  have  stood  apart  to  see 
them.  True,  he  had  gone  about  next  day  with  his 
usual  cool,  off-hand  manner,  because  one  naturally 
did  not  let  people  see,  but  it  was  with  such  an  inner 
aching  and  rage  of  want  and  jealousy  as  to  really 
merit  pity.  Men  of  his  physically  big,  rather  rushing, 
type,  are  the  last  to  possess  their  souls  in  patience. 
Walking  home  after  the  Ball  he  had  determined  to 
follow  her  down  to  the  sea,  where  she  had  said,  so 
maliciously,  that  she  was  going.  After  a  second  al- 
most sleepless  night  he  had  no  longer  any  hesitation. 
He  must  see  her!  After  all,  a  man  might  go  to  his 
own  'place'  with  impunity;  he  did  not  care  if  it  were 
a  pointed  thing  to  do.  Pointed!  The  more  pointed 
the  better!  There  was  beginning  to  be  roused  in  him 


238  THE  PATRICIAN 

an  ugly  stubbornness  of  male  determination.  She 
should  not  escape  him! 

But  now  that  he  was  walking  at  her  side,  all  that 
determination  and  assurance  melted  to  perplexed 
humility.  He  marched  along  by  his  horse  with  his 
head  down,  just  feeling  the  ache  of  being  so  close  to 
her  and  yet  so  far;  angry  with  his  own  silence  and 
awkwardness,  almost  angry  with  her  for  her  loveli- 
ness, and  the  pain  it  made  him  suffer.  When  they 
reached  the  house,  and  she  left  him  at  the  stable- 
yard,  saying  she  was  going  to  get  some  flowers,  he 
jerked  the  beast's  bridle  and  swore  at  it  for  its  slow- 
ness in  entering  the  stable.  He  was  terrified  that  she 
would  be  gone  before  he  could  get  into  the  garden; 
yet  half  afraid  of  finding  her  there.  But  she  was 
still  plucking  carnations  by  the  box  hedge  which  led 
to  the  conservatories.  And  as  she  rose  from  gath- 
ering those  blossoms,  before  he  knew  what  he  was 
doing,  Harbinger  had  thrown  his  arm  around  her, 
held  her  as  in  a  vice,  kissed  her  unmercifully. 

She  seemed  to  offer  no  resistance,  her  smooth 
cheeks  growing  warmer  and  warmer,  even  her  lips 
passive;  but  suddenly  he  recoiled,  and  his  heart  stood 
still  at  his  own  outrageous  daring.  What  had  he 
done  ?  He  saw  her  leaning  back  almost  buried  in  the 
clipped  box  hedge,  and  heard  her  say  with  a  sort  of 
faint  mockery:  "Well!" 

He  would  have  flung  himself  down  on  his  knees 
to  ask  for  pardon  but  for  the  thought  that  someone 
might  come.  He  muttered  hoarsely:  "  By  God,  I  was 
mad!"  and  stood  glowering  in  sullen  suspense  be- 


THE  PATRICIAN  239 

tween  hardihood  and  fear.  He  heard  her  say, 
quietly 

"Yes,  you  were — rather." 

Then  seeing  her  put  her  hand  up  to  her  lips  as  if  he 
had  hurt  them,  he  muttered  brokenly: 

"Forgive  me,  Babs!" 

There  was  a  full  minute's  silence  while  he  stood 
there,  no  longer  daring  to  look  at  her,  beaten  all  over 
by  his  emotions.  Then,  with  bewilderment,  he  heard 
her  say: 

"I  didn't  mind  it— for  once!" 

He  looked  up  at  that.  How  could  she  love  him, 
and  speak  so  coolly !  How  could  she  not  mind,  if  she 
did  not  love  him!  She  was  passing  her  hands  over 
her  face  and  neck  and  hair,  repairing  the  damage  of 
his  kisses. 

"Now  shall  we  go  in?"  she  said. 

Harbinger  took  a  step  forward. 

"I  love  you  so,"  he  said;  "I  will  put  my  life  in  your 
hands,  and  you  shall  throw  it  away." 

At  those  words,  of  whose  exact  nature  he  had  very 
little  knowledge,  he  saw  her  smile. 

"If  I  let  you  come  within  three  yards,  will  you  be 
good?" 

He  bowed ;  and,  in  silence,  they  walked  towards  the 
house. 

Dinner  that  evening  was  a  strange,  uncomfortable 
meal.  But  its  comedy,  too  subtly  played  for  Miltoun 
and  Lord  Dennis,  seemed  transparent  to  the  eyes  of 
Lady  Casterley;  for,  when  Harbinger  had  sallied 
forth  to  ride  back  along  the  sands,  she  took  her  candle 


240  THE  PATRICIAN 

and  invited  Barbara  to  retire.  Then,  having  ad- 
mitted her  granddaughter  to  the  apartment  always 
reserved  for  herself,  and  specially  furnished  with 
practically  nothing,  she  sat  down  opposite  that  tall, 
young,  solid  figure,  as  it  were  taking  stock  of  it,  and 
said: 

"So  you  are  coming  to  your  senses,  at  all  events. 
Kiss  me!' 

Barbara,  stooping  to  perform  this  rite,  saw  a  t:-ar 
stealing  down  the  carved  fine  nose.  Knowing  that  to 
notice  it  would  be  too  dreadful,  she  raised  herself,  and 
went  to  the  window.  There,  staring  out  over  the 
dark  fields  and  dark  sea,  by  the  side  of  which  Har- 
binger was  riding  home,  she  put  her  hand  up  to  her 
lips,  and  thought  for  the  hundredth  time: 

"So  that's  what  it's  like!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

THREE  days  after  his  first,  and  as  he  promised  him- 
self, his  last  Society  Ball,  Courtier  received  a  note 
from  Audrey  Noel,  saying  that  she  had  left  Monkland 
for  the  present,  and  come  up  to  a  little  flat  on  the 
riverside  not  far  from  Westminster. 

When  he  made  his  way  there  that  same  July  day, 
the  Houses  of  Parliament  were  bright  under  a  sun 
which  warmed  all  the  grave  air  emanating  from  their 
counsels  of  perfection.  Courtier  passed  by  dubi- 
ously. His  feelings  in  the  presence  of  those  towers 
were  always  a  little  mixed.  There  was  not  so  much 
of  the  poet  in  him  as  to  cause  him  to  see  nothing  there 
at  all  save  only  some  lines  against  the  sky,  but  there 
was  enough  of  the  poet  to  make  him  long  to  kick 
something;  and  in  this  mood  he  wended  his  way  to 
the  riverside. 

Mrs.  Noel  was  not  at  home,  but  since  the  maid  in- 
formed him  that  she  would  be  in  directly,  he  sat  down 
to  wait.  Her  flat,  which  was  on  the  first  floor,  over- 
looked the  river,  and  had  evidently  been  taken  fur- 
nished, for  there  were  visible  marks  of  a  recent  strug- 
gle with  an  Edwardian  taste  which,  flushed  from 
triumph  over  Victorianism,  had  filled  the  rooms  with 
early  Georgian  remains.  On  the  only  definite  vic- 
tory, a  rose-coloured  window  seat  of  great  comfort 

241 


242  THE  PATRICIAN 

and  little  age,  Courtier  sat  down,  and  resigned 
himself  to  doing  nothing  with  the  ease  of  an  old 
soldier. 

To  the  protective  feeling  he  had  once  had  for  a 
very  graceful,  dark-haired  child,  he  joined  not  only 
the  championing  pity  of  a  man  of  warm  heart  watch 
ing  a  woman  in  distress,  but  the  impatience  of  one, 
who,  though  temperamentally  incapable  of  feeling 
oppressed  himself,  rebelled  at  sight  of  all  forms  of 
tyranny  affecting  others. 

The  sight  of  the  grey  towers,  still  just  visible, 
under  which  Miltoun  and  his  father  sat,  annoyed  him 
deeply;  symbolizing  to  him,  Authority — foe  to  his 
deathless  mistress,  the  sweet,  invincible  lost  cause 
of  Liberty.  But  presently  the  river,  bringing  up  in 
flood  the  unbound  water  that  had  bathed  every  shore, 
touched  all  sands,  and  seen  the  rising  and  falling  of 
each  mortal  star,  so  soothed  him  with  its  soundless 
hymn  to  Freedom,  that  Audrey  Noel  coming  in  with 
her  hands  full  of  flowers,  found  him  sleeping  firmly, 
with  his  mouth  shut. 

Noiselessly  putting  down  the  flowers,  she  waited 
for  his  awakening.  That  sanguine  visage,  with  its 
prominent  chin,  flaring  moustaches,  and  eyebrows 
raised  rather  V-shaped  above  his  closed  eyes,  wore  an 
expression  of  cheery  defiance  even  in  sleep ;  and  per- 
haps no  face  in  all  London  was  so  utterly  its  obverse, 
as  that  of  this  dark,  soft-haired  woman,  delicate,  pas- 
sive, and  tremulous  with  pleasure  at  sight  of  the  only 
person  in  the  world  from  whom  she  felt  she  might 
learn  of  Miltoun,  without  losing  her  self-respect. 


THE  PATRICIAN  243 

He  woke  at  last,  and  manifesting  no  discomfiture, 
said: 

"It  was  like  you  not  to  wake  me." 

They  sat  for  a  long  while  talking,  the  riverside 
traffic  drowsily  accompanying  their  voices,  the  flowers 
drowsily  filling  the  room  with  scent ;  and  when  Cour- 
tier left,  his  heart  was  sore.  She  had  not  spoken  of 
herself  at  all,  but  had  talked  nearly  all  the  time  of 
Barbara,  praising  her  beauty  and  high  spirit;  grow- 
ing pale  once  or  twice,  and  evidently  drinking  in  with 
secret  avidity  every  allusion  to  Miltoun.  Clearly, 
her  feelings  had  not  changed,  though  she  would  not 
show  them!  Courtier's  pity  for  her  became  wellnigh 
violent. 

It  was  in  such  a  mood,  mingled  with  very  different 
feelings,  that  he  donned  evening  clothes  and  set  out 
to  attend  the  last  gathering  of  the  season  at  Valleys 
House,  a  function  which,  held  so  late  in  July,  was 
perforce  almost  perfectly  political. 

Mounting  the  wide  and  shining  staircase,  that  had 
so  often  baffled  the  arithmetic  of  little  Ann,  he  was 
reminded  of  a  picture  entitled  'The  Steps  to  Heaven' 
in  his  nursery  four-and-thirty  years  before.  At  the 
top  of  this  staircase,  and  surrounded  by  acquaint- 
ances, he  came  on  Harbinger,  who  nodded  curtly. 
The  young  man's  handsome  face  and  figure  appeared 
to  Courtier's  jaundiced  eye  more  obviously  successful 
and  complacent  than  ever;  so  that  he  passed  him  by 
sardonically,  and  manoeuvred  his  way  towards  Lady 
Valleys,  whom  he  could  perceive  stationed,  like  a 
general,  in  a  little  cleared  space,  where  to  and  fro 


244  THE  PATRICIAN 

flowed  constant  streams  of  people,  like  the  rays  of  a 
star.  She  was  looking  her  very  best,  going  well  with 
great  and  highly-polished  spaces;  and  she  greeted 
Courtier  with  a  special  cordiality  of  tone,  which  had 
in  it,  besides  kindness  towards  one  who  must  be  feel- 
ing a  strange  bird,  a  certain  diplomatic  quality,  com- 
pounded of  desire,  as  it  were,  to  'warn  him  off,'  and 
fear  of  saying  something  that  might  irritate  and  make 
him  more  dangerous.  She  had  heard,  she  said,  that 
he  was  bound  for  Persia;  she  hoped  he  was  not  going 
to  try  and  make  things  more  difficult  there;  then  with 
the  words:  "So  good  of  you  to  have  come!"  she  be- 
came once  more  the  centre  of  her  battlefield. 

Perceiving  that  he  was  finished  with,  Courtier  stood 
back  against  a  wall  and  watched.  Thus  isolated,  he 
was  like  a  solitary  cuckoo  contemplating  the  gyrations 
of  a  flock  of  rooks.  Their  motions  seemed  a  little 
meaningless  to  one  so  far  removed  from  all  the  fetishes 
and  shibboleths  of  Westminster.  He  heard  them 
discussing  Miltoun's  speech,  the  real  significance  of 
which  apparently  had  only  just  been  grasped.  The 
words  'doctrinaire,'  'extremist,'  came  to  his  ears,  to- 
gether with  the  saying  'a  new  force.'  People  were 
evidently  puzzled,  disturbed,  not  pleased — as  if  some 
star  not  hitherto  accounted  for  had  suddenly  ap- 
peared amongst  the  proper  constellations. 

Searching  this  crowd  for  Barbara,  Courtier  had  all 
the  time  an  uneasy  sense  of  shame.  What  business 
had  he  to  come  amongst  these  people  so  strange  to 
him,  just  for  the  sake  of  seeing  her!  What  business 
had  he  to  be  hankering  after  this  girl  at  all,  knowing 


THE  PATRICIAN  245 

in  his  heart  that  he  could  not  stand  the  atmosphere 
she  lived  in  for  a  week,  and  that  she  was  utterly  un- 
suited  for  any  atmosphere  that  he  could  give  her; 
to  say  nothing  of  the  unlikelihood  that  he  could 
flutter  the  pulses  of  one  half  his  age! 

A  voice  behind  him  said:  "Mr.  Courtier!" 

He  turned,  and  there  was  Barbara. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  something  serious. 
Will  you  come  into  the  picture  gallery?" 

When  at  last  they  were  close  to  a  family  group  of 
Georgian  Caradocs,  and  could  as  it  were  shut  out 
the  throng  sufficiently  for  private  speech,  she  began: 

"Miltoun's  so  horribly  unhappy;  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  for  him.  He's  making  himself  ill!" 

And  she  suddenly  looked  up  in  Courtier's  face. 
She  seemed  to  him  very  young,  and  touching,  at  that 
moment.  Her  eyes  had  a  gleam  of  faith  in  them,  like 
a  child's  eyes,  as  if  she  relied  on  him  to  straighten 
out  this  tangle,  to  tell  her  not  only  about  Miltoun's 
trouble,  but  about  all  life,  its  meaning,  and  the  secret 
of  its  happiness.  And  he  said  gently: 

"What  can  I  do?  Mrs.  Noel  is  in  Town.  But 

that's  no  good,  unless "  Not  knowing  how  to 

finish  this  sentence,  he  was  silent. 

"I  wish  I  were  Miltoun,"  she  muttered. 

At  that  quaint  saying,  Courtier  was  hard  put  to 
it  not  to  take  hold  of  the  hands  so  close  to  him.  This 
flash  of  rebellion  in  her  had  quickened  all  his  blood. 
But  she  seemed  to  have  seen  what  had  passed  in  him, 
for  her  next  speech  was  chilly. 

"It's  no  good;  stupid  of  me  to  be  worrying  you." 


246  THE  PATRICIAN 

"It  is  quite  impossible  for  you  to  worry  me." 

Her  eyes  lifted  suddenly  from  her  glove,  and 
looked  straight  into  his. 

"Are  you  really  going  to  Persia?" 

"Yes." 

"But  I  don't  want  you  to,  not  yet!"  and  turning 
suddenly,  she  left  him. 

Strangely  disturbed,  Courtier  remained  motionless, 
consulting  the  grave  stare  of  the  group  of  Georgian 
Caradocs. 

A  voice  said: 

"Good  painting,  isn't  it?" 

Behind  him  was  Lord  Harbinger.  And  once  more 
the  memory  of  Lady  Casterley's  words;  the  memory 
of  the  two  figures  with  joined  hands  on  the  balcony 
above  the  election  crowd;  all  his  latent  jealousy  of 
this  handsome  young  Colossus,  his  animus  against 
one  whom  he  could,  as  it  were,  smell  out  to  be  always 
fighting  on  the  winning  side;  all  his  consciousness 
too  of  what  a  lost  cause  his  own  was,  his  doubt 
whether  he  were  honourable  to  look  on  it  as  a  cause 
at  all,  flared  up  in  Courtier,  so  that  his  answer  was 
a  stare.  On  Harbinger's  face,  too,  there  had  come 
a  look  of  stubborn  violence  slowly  working  up 
towards  the  surface. 

"I  said:  'Good,  isn't  it?'  Mr.  Courtier." 

"I  heard  you." 

"And  you  were  pleased  to  answer?" 

"Nothing." 

"With  the  civility  which  might  be  expected  of 
your  habits." 


THE  PATRICIAN  247 

Coldly  disdainful,  Courtier  answered: 

"If  you  want  to  say  that  sort  of  thing,  please 
choose  a  place  where  I  can  reply  to  you,"  and 
turned  abruptly  on  his  heel. 

But  he  ground  his  teeth  as  he  made  his  way  out 
into  the  street. 

In  Hyde  Park  the  grass  was  parched  and  dewless 
under  a  sky  whose  stars  were  veiled  by  the  heat  and 
dust  haze.  Never  had  Courtier  so  bitterly  wanted 
the  sky's  consolation — the  blessed  sense  of  insignifi- 
cance in  the  face  of  the  night's  dark  beauty,  which, 
dwarfing  all  petty  rage  and  hunger,  made  men  part 
of  its  majesty,  exalted  them  to  a  sense  of  greatness. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  past  four  o'clock  the  following  day  when 
Barbara  issued  from  Valleys  House  on  foot;  clad  in 
a  pale  buff  frock,  chosen  for  quietness,  she  attracted 
every  eye.  Very  soon  entering  a  taxi-cab,  she  drove 
to  the  Temple,  stopped  at  the  Strand  entrance,  and 
walked  down  the  little  narrow  lane  into  the  heart  of 
the  Law.  Its  votaries  were  hurrying  back  from  the 
Courts,  streaming  up  from  their  Chambers  for  tea, 
or  escaping  desperately  to  Lord's  or  the  Park — 
young  votaries,  unbound  as  yet  by  the  fascination 
of  fame  or  fees.  And  each,  as  he  passed,  looked  at 
Barbara,  with  his  fingers  itching  to  remove  his  hat, 
and  a  feeling  that  this  was  She.  After  a  day  spent 
amongst  precedents  and  practice,  after  six  hours  at 
least  of  trying  to  discover  what  chance  A  had  of 
standing  on  his  rights,  or  B  had  of  preventing  him, 
it  was  difficult  to  feel  otherwise  about  that  calm 
apparition — like  a  golden  slim  tree  walking.  One 
of  them,  asked  by  her  the  way  to  Miltoun's  staircase, 
preceded  her  with  shy  ceremony,  and  when  she  had 
vanished  up  those  dusty  stairs,  lingered  on,  hoping 
that  she  might  find  her  visitee  out,  and  be  obliged  to 
return  and  ask  him  the  way  back.  But  she  did  not 
come,  and  he  went  sadly  away,  disturbed  to  the  very 
bottom  of  all  that  he  owned  in  fee  simple. 


THE  PATRICIAN  249 

In  fact,  no  one  answered  Barbara's  knock,  and 
discovering  that  the  door  yielded,  she  walked  through 
the  lobby  past  the  clerk's  den,  converted  to  a  kitchen, 
into  the  sitting-room.  It  was  empty.  She  had  never 
been  to  Miltoun's  rooms  before,  and  she  stared  about 
her  curiously.  Since  he  did  not  practise,  much  of 
the  proper  gear  was  absent.  The  room  indeed  had 
a  worn  carpet,  a  few  old  chairs,  and  was  lined  from 
floor  to  ceiling  with  books.  But  the  wall  space  be- 
tween the  windows  was  occupied  by  an  enormous 
map  of  England,  scored  all  over  with  figures  and 
crosses;  and  before  this  map  stood  an  immense 
desk,  on  which  were  piles  of  double  foolscap  covered 
with  Miltoun's  neat  and  rather  pointed  writing. 
Barbara  examined  them,  puckering  up  her  forehead; 
she  knew  that  he  was  working  at  a  book  on  the  land 
question,  but  she  had  never  realized  that  the  making 
of  a  book  required  so  much  writing.  Papers,  too, 
and  Blue  Books  littered  a  large  bureau  on  which 
stood  bronze  busts  of  ^Eschylus  and  Dante. 

"What  an  uncomfortable  place!"  she  thought. 
The  room,  indeed,  had  an  atmosphere,  a  spirit, 
which  depressed  her  horribly.  Seeing  a  few  flowers 
down  in  the  court  below,  she  had  a  longing  to  get  out 
to  them.  Then  behind  her  she  heard  the  sound  of 
someone  talking.  But  there  was  no  one  in  the  room; 
and  the  effect  of  this  disrupted  soliloquy,  which 
came  from  nowhere,  was  so  uncanny,  that  she  re- 
treated to  the  door.  The  sound,  as  of  two  spirits 
speaking  in  one  voice,  grew  louder,  and  involuntarily 
she  glanced  at  the  busts.  They  seemed  quite  blame- 


250  THE  PATRICIAN 

less.  Though  the  sound  had  been  behind  her  when 
she  was  at  the  window,  it  was  again  behind  her  now 
that  she  was  at  the  door;  and  she  suddenly  realized 
that  it  was  issuing  from  a  bookcase  in  the  centre  of 
the  wall.  Barbara  had  her  father's  nerve,  and 
walking  up  to  the  bookcase  she  perceived  that  it  had 
been  affixed  to,  and  covered,  a  door  that  was  not 
quite  closed.  She  pulled  it  towards  her,  and  passed 
through.  Across  the  centre  of  an  unkempt  bedroom 
Miltoun  was  striding,  dressed  only  in  his  shirt  and 
trousers.  His  feet  were  bare,  and  his  head  and  hair 
dripping  wet ;  the  look  on  his  thin  dark  face  went  to 
Barbara's  heart.  She  ran  forward,  and  took  his 
hand.  This  was  burning  hot,  but  the  sight  of  her 
seemed  to  have  frozen  his  tongue  and  eyes.  And  the 
contrast  of  his  burning  hand  with  this  frozen  silence, 
frightened  Barbara  horribly.  She  could  think  of 
nothing  but  to  put  her  other  hand  to  his  forehead. 
That  too  was  burning  hot! 

"What  brought  you  here?"  he  said. 

She  could  only  murmur: 

"Oh!  Eusty!    Are  you  ill?" 

Miltoun  took  hold  of  her  wrists. 

"It's  all  right,  I've  been  working  too  hard;  got  a 
touch  of  fever." 

"  So  I  can  feel,"  murmured  Barbara.  "  You  ought 
to  be  in  bed.  Come  home  with  me." 

Miltoun  smiled.    "It's  not  a  case  for  leeches." 

The  look  of  his  smile,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  sent 
a  shudder  through  her. 

"I'm  not  going  to  leave  you  here  alone." 


THE  PATRICIAN  251 

But  Miltoun's  grasp  tightened  on  her  wrists. 

"My  dear  Babs,  you  will  do  what  I  tell  you.  Go 
home,  hold  your  tongue,  and  leave  me  to  burn  out  in 
peace." 

Barbara  sustained  that  painful  grip  without  winc- 
ing; she  had  regained  her  calmness. 

"You  must  come!  You  haven't  anything  here, 
not  even  a  cool  drink." 

"  My  God !    Barley  water ! " 

The  scorn  he  put  into  those  two  words  was  more 
withering  than  a  whole  philippic  against  redemption 
by  creature  comforts.  And  feeling  it  dart  into  her, 
Barbara  closed  her  lips  tight.  He  had  dropped  her 
wrists,  and  again  begun  pacing  up  and  down;  sud- 
denly he  stopped: 

"'The  stars,  sun,  moon  all  shrink  away, 

A  desert  vast,  without  a  bound, 
And  nothing  left  to  eat  or  drink, 
And  a  dark  desert  all  around.' 

You  should  read  your  Blake,  Audrey." 

Barbara  turned  quickly,  and  went  out  frightened. 
She  passed  through  the  sitting-room  and  corridor 
on  to  the  staircase.  He  was  ill — raving!  The  fever 
in  Miltoun's  veins  seemed  to  have  stolen  through  the 
clutch  of  his  hands  into  her  own  veins.  Her  face 
was  burning,  she  thought  confusedly,  breathed  un- 
evenly. She  felt  sore,  and  at  the  same  time  terribly 
sorry;  and  withal  there  kept  rising  in  her  the  gusty 
memory  of  Harbinger's  kiss. 

She  hurried  down  the  stairs,  turned  by  instinct 


2$ 2  THE  PATRICIAN 

down-hill  and  found  herself  on  the  Embankment. 
And  suddenly,  with  her  inherent  uower  of  swift  de- 
cision, she  hailed  a  cab,  and  oV've  to  the  nearest 
telephone  office. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

To  a  woman  like  Audrey  Noel,  born  to  be  the 
counterpart  and  complement  of  another,  whose  oc- 
cupations and  effort  were  inherently  divorced  from 
the  continuity  of  any  stiff  and  strenuous  purpose  of 
her  own,  the  uprooting  she  had  voluntarily  under- 
gone was  a  serious  matter. 

Bereaved  of  the  faces  of  her  flowers,  the  friendly 
sighing  of  her  lime-tree,  the  wants  of  her  cottagers; 
bereaved  of  that  busy  monotony  of  little  home  things 
which  is  the  stay  and  solace  of  lonely  women,  she 
was  extraordinarily  lost.  Even  music  for  review 
seemed  to  have  failed  her.  She  had  never  lived  in 
London,  so  that  she  had  not  the  refuge  of  old  haunts 
and  habits,  but  had  to  make  her  own — and  to  make 
habits  and  haunts  required  a  heart  that  could  at 
least  stretch  out  feelers  and  lay  hold  of  things,  and 
her  heart  was  not  now  able.  When  she  had  struggled 
with  her  Edwardian  flat,  and  laid  down  her  simple 
routine  of  meals,  she  was  as  stranded  as  ever  was 
convict  let  out  of  prison.  She  had  not  even  that 
great  support,  the  necessity  of  hiding  her  feelings 
for  fear  of  disturbing  others.  She  was  planted  there, 
with  her  longing  and  grief,  and  nothing,  nobody,  to 
take  her  out  of  herself.  Having  wilfully  embraced 
this  position,  she  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it,  feeling 


254  THE  PATRICIAN 

it  less  intolerable,  at  all  events,  than  staying  on  at 
Monkland,  where  she  had  made  that  grievous,  and 
unpardonable  error — falling  in  love. 

This  offence,  on  the  part  of  one  who  felt  within 
herself  a  great  capacity  to  enjoy  and  to  confer  hap- 
piness, had  arisen — like  the  other  grievous  and  un- 
pardonable offence,  her  marriage — from  too  much 
disposition  to  yield  herself  to  the  personality  of 
another.  But  it  was  cold  comfort  to  know  that  the 
desire  to  give  and  to  receive  love  had  twice  over  left 
her — a  dead  woman.  Whatever  the  nature  of  those 
immature  sensations  with  which,  as  a  girl  of  twenty, 
she  had  accepted  her  husband,  in  her  feeling  towards 
Miltoun  there  was  not  only  abandonment,  but  the 
higher  flame  of  self-renunciation.  She  wanted  to  do 
the  best  for  him,  and  had  not  even  the  consolation  of 
the  knowledge  that  she  had  sacrificed  herself  for  his 
advantage.  All  had  been  taken  out  of  her  hands! 
Yet  with  characteristic  fatalism  she  did  not  feel  re- 
bellious. If  it  were  ordained  that  she  should,  for 
fifty,  perhaps  sixty  years,  repent  in  sterility  and  ashes 
that  first  error  of  her  girlhood,  rebellion  was,  none 
the  less,  too  far-fetched.  If  she  rebelled,  it  would 
not  be  in  spirit,  but  in  action.  General  principles 
were  nothing  to  her;  she  lost  no  force  brooding  over 
the  justice  or  injustice  of  her  situation,  but  merely 
tried  to  digest  its  facts. 

The  whole  day,  succeeding  Courtier's  visit,  was 
spent  by  her  in  the  National  Gallery,  whose  roof, 
alone  of  all  in  London,  seemed  to  offer  her  protection. 
She  had  found  one  painting,  by  an  Italian  master, 


THE  PATRICIAN  255 

the  subject  of  which  reminded  her  of  Miltoun;  and 
before  this  she  sat  for  a  very  long  time,  attracting  at 
last  the  gouty  stare  of  an  official.  The  still  figure  of 
this  lady,  with  the  oval  face  and  grave  beauty,  both 
piqued  his  curiosity,  and  stimulated  certain  moral 
qualms.  She  was  undoubtedly  waiting  for  her 
lover.  No  woman,  in  his  experience,  had  ever  sat 
so  long  before  a  picture  without  ulterior  motive;  and 
he  kept  his  eyes  well  opened  to  see  what  this  motive 
would  be  like.  It  gave  him,  therefore,  a  sensation 
almost  amounting  to  chagrin  when  coming  round 
once  more,  he  found  they  had  eluded  him  and  gone 
off  together  without  coming  under  his  inspection. 
Feeling  his  feet  a  good  deal,  for  he  had  been  on  them 
all  day,  he  sat  down  in  the  hollow  which  she  had  left 
behind  her;  and  against  his  will  found  himself  also 
looking  at  the  picture.  It  was  painted  in  a  style  he 
did  not  care  for;  the  face  of  the  subject,  too,  gave 
him  the  queer  feeling  that  the  gentleman  was  being 
roasted  inside.  He  had  not  been  sitting  there  long, 
however,  before  he  perceived  the  lady  standing  by 
the  picture,  and  the  lips  of  the  gentleman  in  the  pic- 
ture moving.  It  seemed  to  him  against  the  rules, 
and  he  got  up  at  once,  and  went  towards  it;  but  as 
he  did  so,  he  found  that  his  eyes  were  shut,  and  opened 
them  hastily.  There  was  no  one  there. 

From  the  National  Gallery,  Audrey  had  gone  into 
an  A.B.C.  for  tea,  and  then  home.  Before  the 
Mansions  was  a  taxi-cab,  and  the  maid  met  her 
with  the  news  that  'Lady  Caradog'  was  in  the 
sitting-room. 


256  THE  PATRICIAN 

Barbara  was  indeed  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  with  a  look  on  her  face  such  as  her  father  wore 
sometimes  on  the  racecourse,  in  the  hunting  field, 
or  at  stormy  Cabinet  Meetings,  a  look  both  resolute 
and  sharp.  She  spoke  at  once: 

"I  got  your  address  from  Mr.  Courtier.  My 
brother  is  ill.  I'm  afraid  it'll  be  brain  fever,  I  think 
you  had  better  go  and  see  him  at  his  rooms  in  the 
Temple;  there's  no  time  to  be  lost." 

To  Audrey  everything  in  the  room  seemed  to  go 
round ;  yet  all  her  senses  were  preternaturally  acute, 
so  that  she  could  distinctly  smell  the  mud  of  the  river 
at  low  tide.  She  said,  with  a  shudder: 

"Oh!  I  will  go;  yes,  I  will  go  at  once." 

"He's  quite  alone.  He  hasn't  asked  for  you ;  but 
I  think  your  going  is  the  only  chance.  He  took  me 
for  you.  You  told  me  once  you  were  a  good  nurse." 

"Yes." 

The  room  was  steady  enough  now,  but  she  had 
lost  the  preternatural  acuteness  of  her  senses,  and 
felt  confused.  She  heard  Barbara  say:  "I  can  take 
you  to  the  door  in  my  cab,"  and  murmuring:  "I  will 
get  ready,"  went  into  her  bedroom.  For  a  moment 
she  was  so  utterly  bewildered  that  she  did  nothing. 
Then  every  other  thought  was  lost  in  a  strange,  soft, 
almost  painful  delight,  as  if  some  new  instinct  were 
being  born  in  her;  and  quickly,  but  without  confusion 
or  hurry,  she  began  packing.  She  put  into  a  valise 
her  own  toilet  things;  then  flannel,  cotton-wool,  eau 
de  Cologne,  hot-water  bottle,  Etna,  shawls,  ther- 
mometer, everything  she  had  which  could  serve  in 


THE  PATRICIAN  257 

illness.  Changing  to  a  plain  dress,  she  took  up  the 
valise  and  returned  to  Barbara.  They  went  out  to- 
gether to  the  cab.  The  moment  it  began  to  bear  her 
to  this  ordeal  at  once  so  longed-for  and  so  terrible, 
fear  came  over  her  again,  so  that  she  screwed  herself 
into  the  corner,  very  white  and  still.  She  was  aware 
of  Barbara  calling  to  the  driver:  "Go  by  the  Strand, 
and  stop  at  a  poulterer's  for  ice!"  And,  when  the 
bag  of  ice  had  been  handed  in,  heard  her  saying: 
"I  will  bring  you  all  you  want — if  he  is  really  going 
to  be  ill." 

Then,  as  the  cab  stopped,  and  the  open  doorway 
of  the  staircase  was  before  her,  all  her  courage  came 
back. 

She  felt  the  girl's  warm  hand  against  her  own,  and 
grasping  her  valise  and  the  bag  of  ice;  got  out,  and 
hurried  up  the  steps. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ON  leaving  Nettlefold,  Miltoun  had  gone  straight 
back  to  his  rooms,  and  begun  at  once  to  work  at  his 
book  on  the  land  question.  He  worked  all  through 
that  night — his  third  night  without  sleep,  and  all  the 
following  day.  In  the  evening,  feeling  queer  in  the 
head,  he  went  out  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
Embankment.  Then,  fearing  to  go  to  bed  and  lie 
sleepless,  he  sat  down  in  his  arm-chair.  Falling 
asleep  there,  he  had  fearful  dreams,  and  awoke  un- 
refreshed.  After  his  bath,  he  drank  coffee,  and 
again  forced  himself  to  work.  By  the  middle  of  the 
day  he  felt  dizzy  and  exhausted,  but  utterly  disin- 
clined to  eat.  He  went  out  into  the  hot  Strand, 
bought  himself  a  necessary  book,  and  after  drinking 
more  coffee,  came  back  and  again  began  to  work. 
At  four  o'clock  he  found  that  he  was  not  taking  in 
the  words.  His  head  was  burning  hot,  and  he  went 
into  his  bedroom  to  bathe  it.  Then  somehow  he 
began  walking  up  and  down,  talking  to  himself,  as 
Barbara  had  found  him. 

She  had  no  sooner  gone,  than  he  felt  utterly  ex- 
hausted. A  small  crucifix  hung  over  his  bed,  and 
throwing  himself  down  before  it,  he  remained  motion- 
less with  his  face  buried  in  the  coverlet,  and  his  arms 
stretched  out  towards  the  wall.  He  did  not  pray, 

258 


THE  PATRICIAN  259 

out  merely  sought  rest  from  sensation.  Across  his 
half-hypnotized  consciousness  little  threads  of  burn- 
ing fancy  kept  shooting.  Then  he  could  feel  nothing 
but  utter  physical  sickness,  and  against  this  his  will 
revolted.  He  resolved  that  he  would  not  be  ill,  a 
ridiculous  log  for  women  to  hang  over.  But  the 
moments  of  sickness  grew  longer  and  more  frequent; 
and  to  drive  them  away  he  rose  from  his  knees,  and 
for  some  time  again  walked  up  and  down ;  then,  seized 
with  vertigo,  he  was  obliged  to  sit  on  the  bed  to  save 
himself  from  falling.  From  being  burning  hot  he  had 
become  deadly  cold,  glad  to  cover  himself  with  the 
bedclothes.  The  heat  soon  flamed  up  in  him  again; 
but  with  a  sick  man's  instinct  he  did  not  throw  off  the 
clothes,  and  stayed  quite  still.  The  room  seemed 
to  have  turned  to  a  thick  white  substance  like  a  cloud, 
in  which  he  lay  enwrapped,  unable  to  move  hand  or 
foot.  His  sense  of  smell  and  hearing  had  become  un- 
naturally acute;  he  smelled  the  distant  streets,  flowers, 
dust,  and  the  leather  of  his  books,  even  the  scent  left 
by  Barbara's  clothes,  and  a  curious  odour  of  river 
mud.  A  clock  struck  six,  he  counted  each  stroke; 
and  instantly  the  whole  world  seemed  full  of  striking 
clocks,  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs,  bicycle  bells,  peo- 
ple's footfalls,  His  sense  of  vision,  on  the  contrary, 
was  absorbed  in  consciousness  of  this  white  blanket 
of  cloud  wherein  he  was  lifted  above  the  earth,  in  the 
midst  of  a  dull  incessant  hammering.  On  the  sur- 
face of  the  cloud  there  seemed  to  be  forming  a  num- 
ber of  little  golden  spots;  these  spots  were  moving, 
and  he  saw  that  they  were  toads.  Then,  beyond 


2<5o  THE  PATRICIAN 

them,  a  huge  face  shaped  itself,  very  dark,  as  if  of 
bronze,  with  eyes  burning  into  his  brain.  The  more 
he  struggled  to  get  away  from  these  eyes,  the  more 
they  bored  and  burned  into  him.  His  voice  was 
gone,  so  that  he  was  unable  to  cry  out,  and  suddenly 
the  face  marched  over  him. 

When  he  recovered  consciousness  his  head  was 
damp  with  moisture  trickling  from  something  held  to 
his  forehead  by  a  figure  leaning  above  him.  Lifting 
his  hand  he  touched  a  cheek;  and  hearing  a  sob  in- 
stantly suppressed,  he  sighed.  His  hand  was  gently 
taken ;  he  felt  kisses  on  it. 

The  room  was  so  dark,  that  he  could  scarcely  see 
her  face — his  sight  too  was  dim;  but  he  could  hear  her 
breathing  and  the  least  sound  of  her  dress  and  move- 
ments— the  scent  too  of  her  hands  and  hair  seemed 
to  envelop  him,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  acute  dis- 
comfort of  his  fever,  he  felt  the  band  round  his  brain 
relax.  He  did  not  ask  how  long  she  had  been  there, 
but  lay  quite  still,  trying  to  keep  his  eyes  on  her,  for 
fear  of  that  face,  which  seemed  lurking  behind  the  air, 
ready  to  march  on  him  again.  Then  feeling  sud- 
denly that  he  could  not  hold  it  back,  he  beckoned,  and 
clutched  at  her,  trying  to  cover  himself  with  the  pro- 
tection of  her  breast.  This  time  his  swoon  was  not 
so  deep;  it  gave  way  to  delirium,  with  intervals  when 
he  knew  that  she  was  there,  and  by  the  shaded  candle 
light  could  see  her  in  a  white  garment,  floating  close 
to  him,  or  sitting  still  with  her  hand  on  his;  he  could 
even  feel  the  faint  comfort  of  the  ice  cap,  and  of  the 
scent  of  eau  de  Cologne.  Then  he  would  lose  all  con- 


THE  PATRICIAN  261 

sciousness  of  her  presence,  and  pass  through  into  the 
incoherent  world,  where  the  crucifix  above  his  bed 
seemed  to  bulge  and  hang  out,  as  if  it  must  fall  on 
him.  He  conceived  a  violent  longing  to  tear  it  down, 
which  grew  till  he  had  struggled  up  in  bed  and 
wrenched  it  from  off  the  wall.  Yet  a  mysterious 
consciousness  of  her  presence  permeated  even  his 
darkest  journeys  into  the  strange  land;  and  once  she 
seemed  to  be  with  him,  where  a  strange  light  showed 
them  fields  and  trees,  a  dark  line  of  moor,  and  a 
bright  sea,  all  whitened,  and  flashing  with  sweet 
violence. 

Soon  after  dawn  he  had  a  long  interval  of  conscious- 
ness, and  took  in  with  a  sort  of  wonder  her  presence 
in  the  low  chair  by  his  bed.  So  still  she  sat  in  a  white 
loose  gown,  pale  with  watching,  her  eyes  immovably 
fixed  on  him,  her  lips  pressed  together,  and  quivering 
at  his  faintest  motion.  He  drank  in  desperately  the 
sweetness  of  her  face,  which  had  so  lost  remembrance 
of  self. 


CHAPTER  X 

BARBARA  gave  the  news  of  her  brother's  illness  to 
no  one  else,  common  sense  telling  her  to  run  no  risk 
of  disturbance.  Of  her  own  initiative,  she  brought  a 
doctor,  and  went  down  twice  a  day  to  hear  reports  of 
Miltoun's  progress. 

As  a  fact,  her  father  and  mother  had  gone  to  Lord 
Dennis,  for  Goodwood,  and  the  chief  difficulty  had 
been  to  excuse  her  own  neglect  of  that  favourite  Meet- 
ing. She  had  fallen  back  on  the  half-truth  that 
Eustace  wanted  her  in  Town;  and,  since  Lord  and 
Lady  Valleys  had  neither  of  them  shaken  off  a 
certain  uneasiness  about  their  son,  the  pretext 
sufficed. 

It  was  not  until  the  sixth  day,  when  the  crisis  was 
well  past  and  Miltoun  quite  free  from  fever,  that  she 
again  went  down  to  Nettlefold. 

On  arriving  she  at  once  sought  out  her  mother, 
whom  she  found  in  her  bedroom,  resting.  It  had 
been  very  hot  at  Goodwood. 

Barbara  was  not  afraid  of  her — she  was  not,  indeed, 
afraid  of  anyone,  except  Miltoun,  and  in  some  strange 
way,  a  little  perhaps  of  Courtier;  yet,  when  the  maid 
had  gone,  she  did  not  at  once  begin  her  tale.  Lady 
Valleys,  who  at  Goodwood  had  just  heard  details  of 
a  Society  scandal,  began  a  carefully  expurgated  ac- 


THE  PATRICIAN  263 

count  of  it  suitable  to  her  daughter's  ears — for  some 
account  she  felt  she  must  give  to  somebody. 

"Mother,"  said  Barbara  suddenly,  "Eustace  has 
been  ill.  He's  out  of  danger  now,  and  going  on  all 
right."  Then,  looking  hard  at  the  bewildered  lady, 
she  added:  "Mrs.  Noel  is  nursing  him." 

The  past  tense  in  which  illness  had  been  mentioned, 
checking  at  the  first  moment  any  rush  of  panic  in 
Lady  Valleys,  left  her  confused  by  the  situation  con- 
jured up  in  Barbara's  last  words.  Instead  of  feeding 
that  part  of  man  which  loves  a  scandal,  she  was  being 
fed,  always  an  unenviable  sensation.  A  woman  did 
not  nurse  a  man  under  such  circumstances  without 
being  everything  to  him,  in  the  world's  eyes.  Her 
daughter  went  on: 

"I  took  her  to  him.  It  seemed  the  only  thing  to 
do — since  it's  all  through  fretting  for  her.  Nobody 
knows,  of  course,  except  the  doctor,  and — Stacey." 

"Heavens!"  muttered  Lady  Valleys. 

"It  has  saved  him." 

The  mother  instinct  in  Lady  Valleys  took  sudden 
fright.  "Are  you  telling  me  the  truth,  Babs?  Is 
he  really  out  of  danger?  How  wrong  of  you  not  to 
let  me  know  before!" 

But  Barbara  did  not  flinch;  and  her  mother  re- 
lapsed into  rumination. 

"Stacey  is  a  cat!"  she  said  suddenly.  The  ex- 
purgated details  of  the  scandal  she  had  been  retailing 
to  her  daughter  had  included  the  usual  maid.  She 
could  not  find  it  in  her  to  enjoy  the  irony  of  this  coin- 
cidence. Then,  seeing  Barbara  smile,  she  said  tartly: 


264  THE  PATRICIAN 

"I  fail  to  see  the  joke." 

"Only  that  I  thought  you'd  enjoy  my  throwing 
Stacey  in,  dear." 

"What!    You  mean  she  doesn't  know?" 

"Not  a  word." 

Lady  Valleys  smiled. 

"What  a  little  wretch  you  are,  Babs!"  Maliciously 
she  added:  "Claud  and  his  mother  are  coming  over 
from  Whitewater,  with  Bertie  and  Lily  Malvezin,  you'd 
better  go  and  dress;"  and  her  eyes  searched  her  daugh- 
ter's so  shrewdly,  that  a  flush  rose  to  the  girl's  cheeks. 

When  she  had  gone,  Lady  Valleys  rang  for  her 
maid  again,  and  relapsed  into  meditation.  Her  first 
thought  was  to  consult  her  husband ;  her  second  that 
secrecy  was  strength.  Since  no  one  knew  but  Bar- 
bara, no  one  had  better  know. 

Her  astuteness  and  experience  comprehended  the 
far-reaching  probabilities  of  this  affair.  It  would  not 
do  to  take  a  single  false  step.  If  she  had  no  one's 
action  to  control  but  her  own  and  Barbara's,  so  much 
the  less  chance  of  a  slip.  Her  mind  was  a  strange 
medley  of  thoughts  and  feelings,  almost  comic,  well- 
nigh  tragic;  of  worldly  prudence,  and  motherly  in- 
stinct; of  warm-blooded  sympathy  with  all  love- 
affairs,  and  cool-blooded  concern  for  her  son's  career. 
It  was  not  yet  too  late  perhaps  to  prevent  real  mis- 
chief; especially  since  it  was  agreed  by  everyone  that 
the  woman  was  no  adventuress.  Whatever  was  done, 
they  must  not  forget  that  she  had  nursed  him — saved 
him,  Barbara  had  said !  She  must  be  treated  with  all 
kindness  and  consideration. 


THE  PATRICIAN  265 

Hastening  her  toilette,  she  in  turn  went  to  her 
daughter's  room. 

Barbara  was  already  dressed,  leaning  out  of  her 
window  towards  the  sea. 

Lady  Valleys  began  almost  timidly: 

"My  dear,  is  Eustace  out  of  bed  yet?" 

"He  was  to  get  up  to-day  for  an  hour  or  two." 

"I  see.  Now,  would  there  be  any  danger  if  you 
and  I  went  up  and  took  charge  over  from  Mrs. 
Noel?" 

"Poor  Eusty!" 

"Yes,  yes!  But,  exercise  your  judgment.  Would 
it  harm  him?" 

Barbara  was  silent.  "No,"  she  said  at  last,  "I 
don't  suppose  it  would,  now;  but  it's  for  the  doctor 
to  say." 

Lady  Valleys  exhibited  a  manifest  relief. 

"We'll  see  him  first,  of  course.  Eustace  will  have 
to  have  an  ordinary  nurse,  I  suppose,  for  a  bit." 

Looking  stealthily  at  Barbara,  she  added: 

"I  mean  to  be  very  nice  to  her;  but  one  mustn't  be 
romantic,  you  know,  Babs." 

From  the  little  smile  on  Barbara's  lips  she  derived 
no  sense  of  certainty;  indeed  she  was  visited  by  all 
her  late  disquietude  about  her  young  daughter,  by 
all  the  feeling  that  she,  as  well  as  Miltoun,  was 
hovering  on  the  verge  of  some  folly. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  down." 

But  Barbara  lingered  a  little  longer  in  that  bed- 
room where  ten  nights  ago  she  had  lain  tossing,  till  in 
despair  she  went  and  cooled  herself  in  the  dark  sea. 


266  THE  PATRICIAN 

Her  last  little  interview  with  Courtier  stood  between 
her  and  a  fresh  meeting  with  Harbinger,  whom  at  the 
Valleys  House  gathering  she  had  not  suffered  to  be 
alone  with  her.  She  came  down  late. 

That  same  evening,  out  on  the  beach  road,  under  a 
sky  swarming  with  stars,  the  people  were  strolling — 
folk  from  the  towns,  down  for  their  fortnight's  holi- 
day. In  twos  and  threes,  in  parties  of  six  or  eight, 
they  passed  the  wall  at  the  end  of  Lord  Dennis's 
little  domain ;  and  the  sound  of  their  sparse  talk  and 
laughter,  together  with  the  sighing  of  the  young 
waves,  was  blown  over  the  wall  to  the  ears  of  Har- 
binger, Bertie,  Barbara,  and  Lily  Malvezin,  when 
they  strolled  out  after  dinner  to  sniff  the  sea.  The 
holiday-makers  stared  dully  at  the  four  figures  in 
evening  dress  looking  out  above  their  heads;  they 
had  other  things  than  these  to  think  of,  becoming 
more  and  more  silent  as  the  night  grew  dark.  The 
four  young  people  too  were  rather  silent.  There  was 
something  in  this  warm  night,  with  its  sighing,  and  its 
darkness,  and  its  stars,  that  was  not  favourable  to 
talk,  so  that  presently  they  split  into  couples,  drifting 
a  little  apart. 

Standing  there,  gripping  the  wall,  it  seemed  to 
Harbinger  that  there  were  no  words  left  in  the  world. 
Not  even  his  worst  enemy  could  have  called  this 
young  man  romantic;  yet  that  figure  beside  him,  the 
gleam  of  her  neck  and  her  pale  cheek  in  the  dark, 
gave  him  perhaps  the  most  poignant  glimpse  of 
mystery  that  he  had  ever  had.  His  mind,  essen- 
tially that  of  a  man  of  affairs,  by  nature  and  by 


THE  PATRICIAN  267 

habit  at  home  amongst  the  material  aspects  of  things, 
was  but  gropingly  conscious  that  here,  in  this  dark 
night,  and  the  dark  sea,  and  the  pale  figure  of  this 
girl  whose  heart  was  dark  to  him  and  secret,  there 
was  perhaps  something — yes,  something — which  sur- 
passed the  confines  of  his  philosophy,  something 
beckoning  him  on  out  of  his  snug  compound  into 
the  desert  of  divinity.  If  so,  it  was  soon  gone  in  the 
aching  of  his  senses  at  the  scent  of  her  hair,  and  the 
longing  to  escape  from  this  weird  silence. 

"Babs,"  he  said,  "have  you  forgiven  me?" 

Her  answer  came,  without  turn  of  head,  natural, 
indifferent : 

"Yes— I  told  you  so." 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  a  fellow?" 

"What  shall  we  talk  about — the  running  of 
Casetta?" 

Deep  down  within  him  Harbinger  uttered  a  noise- 
less oath.  Something  sinister  was  making  her  be- 
have like  this  to  him!  It  was  that  fellow — that 
fellow!  And  suddenly  he  said: 

"Tell  me  this "  then  speech  seemed  to  stick 

in  his  throat.  No!  If  there  were  anything  in  that, 
he  preferred  not  to  hear  it.  There  was  a  limit! 

Down  below,  a  pair  of  lovers  passed,  very  silent, 
their  arms  round  each  other's  waists. 

Barbara  turned  and  walked  away  towards  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  days  when  Miltoun  was  first  allowed  out  of 
bed  were  a  time  of  mingled  joy  and  sorrow  to  her 
who  had  nursed  him.  To  see  him  sitting  up, 
amazed  at  his  own  weakness,  was  happiness,  yet  to 
think  that  he  would  be  no  more  wholly  dependent, 
no  more  that  sacred  thing,  a  helpless  creature, 
brought  her  the  sadness  of  a  mother  whose  child  no 
longer  needs  her.  With  every  hour  he  would  now 
get  farther  from  her,  back  into  the  fastnesses  of  his 
own  spirit.  With  every  hour  she  would  be  less  his 
nurse  and  comforter,  more  the  woman  he  loved. 
And  though  that  thought  shone  out  in  the  obscure 
future  like  a  glamorous  flower,  it  brought  too  much 
wistful  uncertainty  to  the  present.  She  was  very 
tired,  too,  now  that  all  excitement  was  over — so  tired 
that  she  hardly  knew  what  she  did  or  where  she 
moved.  But  a  smile  had  become  so  faithful  to  her 
eyes  that  it  clung  there  above  the  shadows  of  fatigue, 
and  kept  taking  her  lips  prisoner. 

Between  the  two  bronze  busts  she  had  placed  a 
bowl  of  lilies  of  the  valley;  and  every  free  niche  in 
that  room  of  books  had  a  little  vase  of  roses  to  wel- 
come Miltoun's  return. 

He  was  lying  back  in  his  big  leather  chair,  wrapped 
in  a  Turkish  gown  of  Lord  Valleys' — on  which  Bar- 

368 


THE  PATRICIAN  269 

bara  had  laid  hands,  having  failed  to  find  anything 
resembling  a  dressing-gown  amongst  her  brother's 
austere  clothing.  The  perfume  of  lilies  had  over- 
come the  scent  of  books,  and  a  bee,  dusky,  adven- 
turer, filled  the  room  with  his  pleasant  humming. 

They  did  not  speak,  but  smiled  faintly,  looking  at 
one  another.  In  this  still  moment,  before  passion 
had  returned  to  claim  its  own,  their  spirits  passed 
through  the  sleepy  air,  and  became  entwined,  so  that 
neither  could  withdraw  that  soft,  slow,  encountering 
glance.  In  mutual  contentment,  each  to  each,  close 
as  music  to  the  strings  of  a  violin,  their  spirits  clung 
— so  lost,  the  one  in  the  other,  that  neither  for  that 
brief  time  seemed  to  know  which  was  self. 

In  fulfilment  of  her  resolution,  Lady  Valleys,  who 
had  returned  to  Town  by  a  morning  train,  started 
with  Barbara  for  the  Temple  about  three  in  the  after- 
noon, and  stopped  at  the  doctor's  on  the  way.  The 
whole  thing  would  be  much  simpler  if  Eustace  were 
fit  to  be  moved  at  once  to  Valleys  House;  and  with 
much  relief  she  found  that  the  doctor  saw  no  danger 
in  [this  course.  The  recovery  had  been  remarkable 
— touch  and  go  for  bad  brain  fever — just  avoided! 
Lord  Miltoun's  constitution  was  extremely  sound. 
^Tes,  he  would  certainly  favour  a  removal.  His 
rooms  were  too  confined  in  this  weather.  Well 
nursed — decidedly!  Oh,  yes!  Quite!  And  the  doc- 
tor's eyes  became  perhaps  a  trifle  more  intense.  Not 
a  professional,  he  understood.  It  might  be  as  well 
to  have  another  nurse,  if  they  were  making  the 


270  THE  PATRICIAN 

change.  They  would  have  this  lady  knocking  up. 
Just  so !  Yes,  he  would  see  to  that.  An  ambulance 
carriage  he  thought  advisable.  That  could  all  be 
arranged  for  this  afternoon — at  once — he  himself 
would  look  to  it.  They  might  take  Lord  Miltoun 
off  just  as  he  was;  the  men  would  know  what  to  do. 
And  when  they  had  him  at  Valleys  House,  the  mo- 
ment he  showed  interest  in  his  food,  down  to  the 
sea — down  to  the  sea !  At  this  time  of  year  nothing 
like  it!  Then  with  regard  to  nourishment,  he  would 
be  inclined  already  to  shove  in  a  leetle  stimulant,  a 
thimbleful  perhaps  four  times  a  day  with  food — not 
without — mixed  with  an  egg,  with  arrowroot,  with 
custard.  A  week  would  see  him  on  his  legs,  a  fort- 
night at  the  sea  make  him  as  good  a  man  as  ever. 
Overwork — burning  the  candle — a  leetle  more  would 
have  seen  a  very  different  state  of  things!  Quite  sol 
quite  so !  Would  come  round  himself  before  dinner, 
and  make  sure.  His  patient  might  feel  it  just  at  first ! 
He  bowed  Lady  Valleys  out;  and  when  she  had 
gone,  sat  down  at  his  telephone  with  a  smile  flicker- 
ing on  his  clean-cut  lips, 

Greatly  fortified  by  this  interview,  Lady  Valleys 
rejoined  her  daughter  in  the  car;  but  while  it  slid  on 
amongst  the  multitudinous  traffic,  signs  of  unwonted 
nervousness  began  to  start  out  through  the  placidity 
of  her  face. 

"I  wish,  my  dear,"  she  said  suddenly,  "that  some- 
one else  had  to  do  this.  Suppose  Eustace  refuses!" 

"He  won't,"  Barbara  answered;  "she  looks  so 
tired,  poor  dear.  Besides " 


THE  PATRICIAN  271 

Lady  Valleys  gazed  with  curiosity  at  that  young 
face,  which  had  flushed  pink.  Yes,  this  daughter  of 
hers  was  a  woman  already,  with  all  a  woman's  in- 
tuitions. She  said  gravely: 

"It  was  a  rash  stroke  of  yours,  Babs;  let's  hope  it 
won't  lead  to  disaster." 

Barbara  bit  her  lips. 

"If  you'd  seen  him  as  I  saw  him!  And,  what 
disaster?  Mayn't  they  love  each  other,  if  they 
want?" 

Lady  Valleys  swallowed  a  grimace.  It  was  so 
exactly  her  own  point  of  view.  And  yet ! 

"That's  only  the  beginning,"  she  said;  "you  for- 
get the  sort  of  boy  Eustace  is." 

"Why  can't  the  poor  thing  be  let  out  of  her  cage?" 
cried  Barbara.  "What  good  does  it  do  to  anyone? 
Mother,  if  ever,  when  I  am  married,  I  want  to  get 
free,  I  will!" 

The  tone  of  her  voice  was  so  quivering,  and  unlike 
the  happy  voice  of  Barbara,  that  Lady  Valleys  in- 
voluntarily caught  hold  of  her  hand  and  squeezed  it 
hard. 

"My  dear  sweet,"  she  said,  "don't  let's  talk  of 
such  gloomy  things." 

"I  mean  it.    Nothing  shall  stop  me." 

But  Lady  Valleys'  face  had  suddenly  become 
rather  grim. 

"So  we  think,  child;  it's  not  so  simple." 

"It  can't  be  worse,  anyway,"  muttered  Barbara, 
"than  being  buried  alive  as  that  wretched  woman  is." 

For  answer  Lady  Valleys  only  murmured: 


272  THE  PATRICIAN 

"The  doctor  promised  that  ambulance  carriage 
at  four  o'clock.  What  am  I  going  to  say?" 

"She'll  understand  when  you  look  at  her.  She's 
that  sort." 

The  door  was  opened  to  them  by  Mrs.  Noel  herself. 

It  was  the  first  time  Lady  Valleys  had  seen  her  in 
a  house,  and  there  was  real  curiosity  mixed  with  the 
assurance  which  masked  her  nervousness.  A  pretty 
creature,  even  lovely!  But  the  quite  genuine  sym- 
pathy in  her  words:  "I  am  truly  grateful.  You 
must  be  quite  worn  out,"  did  not  prevent  her  add- 
ing hastily:  "The  doctor  says  he  must  be  got  home 
out  of  these  hot  rooms.  We'll  wait  here  while  you 
tell  him." 

And  then  she  saw  that  it  was  true;  this  woman 
was  the  sort  who  understood. 

Left  in  the  dark  passage,  she  peered  round  at 
Barbara. 

The  girl  was  standing  against  the  wall  with  her 
head  thrown  back.  Lady  Valleys  could  not  see  her 
face;  but  she  felt  all  of  a  sudden  exceedingly  un- 
comfortable, and  whispered: 

"Two  murders  and  a  theft,  Babs;  wasn't  it  'Our 
Mutual  Friend*?" 

"Mother!" 

"What?" 

"Her  face!  When  you're  going  to  throw  away  a 
flower,  it  looks  at  you!" 

"My  dear!"  murmured  Lady  Valleys,  thoroughly 
distressed,  "what  things  you're  saying  to-day!" 

This  lurking  in  a  dark  passage,  this  whispering 


THE  PATRICIAN  273 

girl — it  was  all  queer,  unlike  an  experience  in  proper 
life. 

And  then  through  the  reopened  door  she  saw  Mil- 
toun,  stretched  out  in  a  chair,  very  pale,  but  still  with 
that  look  about  his  eyes  and  lips,  which  of  all  things 
in  the  world  had  a  chastening  effect  on  Lady  Valleys, 
making  her  feel  somehow  incurably  mundane. 

She  said  rather  timidly: 

"I'm  so  glad  you're  better,  dear.  What  a  time 
you  must  have  had !  It's  too  bad  that  I  knew  nothing 
till  yesterday!" 

But  Miltoun's  answer  was,  as  usual,  thoroughly 
disconcerting. 

"Thanks,  yes!  I  have  had  a  perfect  time — and 
have  now  to  pay  for  it,  I  suppose." 

Held  back  by  his  smile  from  bending  to  kiss  him, 
poor  Lady  Valleys  fidgeted  from  head  to  foot.  A 
sudden  impulse  of  sheer  womanliness  caused  a  tear 
to  fall  on  his  hand. 

When  Miltoun  perceived  that  moisture,  he  said : 

"  It's  all  right,  mother.    I'm  quite  willing  to  come." 

Still  wounded  by  his  voice,  Lady  Valleys  hardened 
instantly.  And  while  preparing  for  departure  she 
watched  the  two  furtively.  They  hardly  looked  at 
one  another,  and  when  they  did,  their  eyes  baffled 
her.  The  expression  was  outside  her  experience, 
belonging  as  it  were  to  a  different  world,  with  its 
faintly  smiling,  almost  shining,  gravity. 

Vastly  relieved  when  Miltoun,  covered  with  a  fur, 
had  been  taken  down  to  the  carriage,  she  lingered  to 
speak  to  Mrs.  Noel. 


274  THE  PATRICIAN 

"We  owe  you  a  great  debt.  It  might  have  been  so 
much  worse.  You  mustn't  be  disconsolate.  Go  tc 
bed  and  have  a  good  long  rest."  And  from  the  door, 
she  murmured  again:  "He  will  come  and  thank  you, 
when  he's  well." 

Descending  the  stone  stairs,  she  thought:  "'Anon- 
yma' — 'Anonyma' — yes,  it  was  quite  the  name.'' 
And  suddenly  she  saw  Barbara  come  running  up 
again. 

"What  is  it,  Babs?" 

Barbara  answered: 

"Eustace  would  like  some  of  those  lilies."  And, 
passing  Lady  Valleys,  she  went  on  up  to  Miltoun's 
chambers. 

Mrs.  Noel  was  not  in  the  sitting-room,  and  going 
to  the  bedroom  door,  the  girl  looked  in. 

She  was  standing  by  the  bed,  drawing  her  hand 
over  and  over  the  white  surface  of  the  pillow.  Steal- 
ing noiselessly  back,  Barbara  caught  up  the  bunch  of 
lilies,  and  fled. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MILTOUN,  whose  constitution  had  the  steel-like 
quality  of  Lady  Casterley's,  had  a  very  rapid  con- 
valescence. And,  having  begun  to  take  an  interest 
in  his  food,  he  was  allowed  to  travel  on  the  seventh 
day  to  Sea  House  in  charge  of  Barbara. 

The  two  spent  their  time  in  a  little  summer-house 
close  to  the  sea;  lying  out  on  the  beach  under  the 
groynes;  and,  as  Miltoun  grew  stronger,  motoring 
and  walking  on  the  Downs. 

To  Barbara,  keeping  a  close  watch,  he  seemed  tran- 
quilly enough  drinking  in  from  Nature  what  was 
necessary  to  restore  balance  after  the  struggle  and 
breakdown  of  the  past  weeks.  Yet  she  could  never 
get  rid  of  a  queer  feeling  that  he  was  not  really  there 
at  all;  to  look  at  him  was  like  watching  an  uninhab- 
ited house  that  was  waiting  for  someone  to  enter. 

During  a  whole  fortnight  he  did  not  make  a  single 
allusion  to  Mrs.  Noel,  till,  on  the  very  last  morning, 
as  they  were  watching  the  sea,  he  said  with  his  queer 
smile: 

"It  almost  makes  one  believe  her  theory,  that  the 
old  gocS  are  not  dead.  Do  you  ever  see  them,  Babs; 
or  are  you,  like  me,  obtuse?" 

Certainly  about  those  lithe  invasions  of  the  sea- 

375 


276  THE  PATRICIAN 

nymph  waves,  with  ashy,  streaming  hair,  flinging 
themselves  into  the  arms  of  the  land,  there  was  the 
old  pagan  rapture,  an  inexhaustible  delight,  a  pas- 
sionate soft  acceptance  of  eternal  fate,  a  wonderful 
acquiescence  in  the  untiring  mystery  of  life. 

But  Barbara,  ever  disconcerted  by  that  tone  in  his 
voice,  and  by  this  quick  dive  into  the  waters  of  un- 
accustomed thought,  failed  to  find  an  answer. 

Miltoun  went  on: 

"She  says,  too,  we  can  hear  Apollo  singing.  Shall 
we  try?" 

But  all  that  came  was  the  sigh  of  the  sea,  and  of  the 
wind  in  the  tamarisk. 

"No,"  muttered  Miltoun  at  last,  "she  alone  can 
hear  it." 

And  Barbara  saw  once  more  on  his  face  that  look, 
neither  sad  nor  impatient,  but  as  of  one  uninhabited 
and  waiting. 

She  left  Sea  House  next  day  to  rejoin  her  mother, 
who,  having  been  to  Cowes,  and  to  the  Duchess  of 
Gloucester's,  was  back  in  Town  waiting  for  Parlia- 
ment to  rise,  before  going  off  to  Scotland.  And  that 
same  afternoon  the  girl  made  her  way  to  Mrs.  Noel's 
flat.  In  paying  this  visit  she  was  moved  not  so  much 
by  compassion,  as  by  uneasiness,  and  a  strange  curi- 
osity. Now  that  Miltoun  was  well  again,  she  was 
seriously  disturbed  in  mind.  Had  she  made  a  mis- 
take in  summoning  Mrs.  Noel  to  nurse  him  ? 

When  she  went  into  the  little  drawing-room  Audrey 
was  sitting  in  the  deep-cushioned  window-seat  with  a 
book  on  her  knee;  and  by  the  fact  that  it  was  open 


THE  PATRICIAN  277 

at  the  index,  Barbara  judged  that  she  had  not  been 
reading  too  attentively.  She  showed  no  signs  of 
agitation  at  the  sight  of  her  visitor,  nor  any  eagerness 
to  hear  news  of  Miltoun.  But  the  girl  had  not  been 
five  minutes  in  the  room  before  the  thought  came  to 
her:  "Why!  She  has  the  same  look  as  Eustace!" 
She,  too,  was  like  an  empty  tenement;  without  im- 
patience, discontent,  or  grief — waiting!  Barbara  had 
scarcely  realized  this  with  a  curious  sense  of  discom- 
posure, when  Courtier  was  announced.  Whether 
there  was  in  this  an  absolute  coincidence  or  just  that 
amount  of  calculation  which  might  follow  on  his  part 
from  receipt  of  a  note  written  from  Sea  House — 
saying  that  Miltoun  was  well  again,  that  she  was  com- 
ing up  and  meant  to  go  and  thank  Mrs.  Noel — was 
not  clear,  nor  were  her  own  sensations;  and  she  drew 
over  her  face  that  armoured  look  which  she  perhaps 
knew  Courtier  could  not  bear  to  see.  His  face,  at  all 
events,  was  very  red  when  he  shook  hands.  He  had 
come,  he  told  Mrs.  Noel,  to  say  good-bye.  He  was 
definitely  off  next  week.  Fighting  had  broken  out; 
the  revolutionaries  were  greatly  outnumbered.  In- 
deed he  ought  to  have  been  there  long  before! 

Barbara  had  gone  over  to  the  window;  she  turned 
suddenly,  and  said: 

"You  \v?re  preaching  peace  two  months  ago!" 

Courtier  bowed. 

"We  are  not  all  perfectly  consistent,  Lady  Barbara. 
These  poor  devils  have  a  holy  cause." 

Barbara  held  out  her  hand  to  Mrs.  Noel. 

"You  only  think  their  cause  holy  because  they  hap- 


278  THE  PATRICIAN 

pen  to  be  weak.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Noel;  the  world  is 
meant  for  the  strong,  isn't  it!" 

She  intended  that  to  hurt  him ;  and  from  the  tone 
of  his  voice,  she  knew  it  had. 

"Don't,  Lady  Barbara;  from  your  mother,  yes;  not 
from  you!" 

"It's  what  I  believe.  Good-bye!"  And  she  went 
out. 

She  had  told  him  that  she  did  not  want  him  to  go — 
not  yet;  and  he  was  going! 

But  no  sooner  had  she  got  outside,  after  that  strange 
outburst,  than  she  bit  her  lips  to  keep  back  an  angry, 
miserable  feeling.  He  had  been  rude  to  her,  she  had 
been  rude  to  him;  that  was  the  way  they  had  said 
good-bye!  Then,  as  she  emerged  into  the  sunlight, 
she  thought:  "Oh!  well;  he  doesn't  care,  and  I'm 
sure  I  don't!" 

She  heard  a  voice  behind  her. 

"  May  I  get  you  a  cab  ?  "  and  at  once  the  sore  feeling 
began  to  die  away;  but  she  did  not  look  round,  only 
smiled,  and  shook  her  head,  and  made  a  little  room 
for  him  on  the  pavement. 

But  though  they  walked,  they  did  not  at  first  talk. 
There  was  rising  within  Barbara  a  tantalizing  devil  of 
desire  to  know  the  feelings  that  really  lay  behind  that 
deferential  gravity,  to  make  him  show  her  how  much 
he  really  cared.  She  kept  her  eyes  demurely  lowered, 
but  she  let  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  flicker  about  her 
lips;  she  knew  too  that  her  cheeks  were  glowing, 
and  for  that  she  was  not  sorry.  Was  she  not  to  have 
any — any — was  he  calmly  to  go  away — without 


THE  PATRICIAN  279 

And  she  thought:  "He  shall  say  something!  He 
shall  show  me,  without  that  horrible  irony  of  his!" 

She  said  suddenly: 

"Those  two  are  just  waiting — something  will  hap- 
pen!" 

"It  is  probable,"  was  his  grave  answer. 

She  looked  at  him  then — it  pleased  her  to  see  him 
quiver  as  if  that  glance  had  gone  right  into  him;  and 
she  said  softly: 

"And  I  think  they  will  be  quite  right." 

She  knew  those  were  reckless  words,  nor  cared  very 
much  what  they  meant;  but  she  knew  the  revolt  in 
them  would  move  him.  She  saw  from  his  face  that 
it  had;  and  after  a  little  pause,  said: 

"Happiness  is  the  great  thing,"  and  with  soft, 
wicked  slowness:  "Isn't  it,  Mr.  Courtier?" 

But  all  the  cheeriness  had  gone  out  of  his  face, 
which  had  grown  almost  pale.  He  lifted  his  hand, 
and  let  it  drop.  Then  she  felt  sorry.  It  was  just 
as  if  he  had  asked  her  to  spare  him. 

"As  to  that,"  he  said:  "The  rough,  unfortunately, 
has  to  be  taken  with  the  smooth.  But  life's  fright- 
fully jolly  sometimes." 

"As  now?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  firm  gravity,  and  answered: 

"As  now." 

A  sense  of  utter  mortification  seized  on  Barbara. 
He  was  too  strong  for  her — he  was  quixotic — he  was 
hateful!  And,  determined  not  to  show  a  sign,  to  b« 
at  least  as  strong  as  he,  she  said  calmly: 

"Now  I  think  I'll  have  that  cab!" 


28o  THE  PATRICIAN 

When  she  was  in  the  cab,  and  he  was  standing  with 
his  hat  lifted,  she  looked  at  him  in  the  way  that 
women  can,  so  that  he  did  not  realize  that  she  had 
looked. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  Miltoun  came  to  thank  her,  Audrey  Noel 
was  waiting  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  dressed  in 
white,  her  lips  smiling,  her  dark  eyes  smiling,  still  as 
a  flower  on  a  windless  day. 

In  that  first  look  passing  between  them,  they  for- 
got everything  but  happiness.  Swallows,  on  the 
first  day  of  summer,  in  their  discovery  of  the  bland 
air,  can  neither  remember  that  cold  winds  blow,  nor 
imagine  the  death  of  sunlight  on  their  feathers,  and, 
flitting  hour  after  hour  over  the  golden  fields,  seem 
no  longer  birds,  but  just  the  breathing  of  a  new 
season — swallows  were  no  more  forgetful  of  misfor- 
tune than  were  those  two.  His  gaze  was  as  still  as 
her  very  self;  her  look  at  him  had  in  it  the  quietude 
of  all  emotion. 

When  they  sat  down  to  talk  it  was  as  if  they  had 
gone  back  to  those  days  at  Monkland,  when  he  had 
come  to  her  so  often  to  discuss  everything  in  heaven 
and  earth.  And  yet,  over  that  tranquil  eager  drink- 
ing-in  of  each  other's  presence,  hovered  a  sort  of  awe. 
It  was  the  mood  of  morning  before  the  sun  has  soared. 
The  dew-grey  cobwebs  enwrapped  the  flowers  of 
their  hearts — yet  every  prisoned  flower  could  be  seen. 
And  he  and  she  seemed  looking  through  that  web  at 
the  colour  and  the  deep-down  forms  enshrouded  so 

281 


282  THE  PATRICIAN 

jealously;  each  feared  too  much  to  unveil  the  other'i 
heart.  They  were  like  lovers  who,  rambling  in  a 
shy  wood,  never  dare  stay  their  babbling  talk  of  the 
trees  and  birds  and  lost  bluebells,  lest  in  the  deep 
waters  of  a  kiss  their  star  of  all  that  is  to  come  should 
fall  and  be  drowned.  To  each  hour  its  familiar — 
and  the  spirit  of  that  hour  was  the  spirit  of  the  white 
flowers  in  the  bowl  on  the  window-sill  above  her 
head. 

They  spoke  of  Monkland,  and  Miltoun's  illness; 
of  his  first  speech,  his  impressions  of  the  House  of 
Commons;  of  music,  Barbara,  Courtier,  the  river. 
He  told  her  of  his  health,  and  described  his  days 
down  by  the  sea.  She,  as  ever,  spoke  little  of  her- 
self, persuaded  that  it  could  not  interest  even  him; 
but  she  described  a  visit  to  the  opera;  and  how  she 
had  found  a  picture  in  the  National  Gallery  which 
reminded  her  of  him.  To  all  these  trivial  things  and 
countless  others,  the  tone  of  their  voices — soft,  al- 
most murmuring,  with  a  sort  of  delighted  gentleness 
—gave  a  high,  sweet  importance,  a  halo  that  neither 
for  the  world  would  have  dislodged  from  where  it 
hovered. 

It  was  past  six  when  he  got  up  to  go,  and  there  had 
not  been  a  moment  to  break  the  calm  of  that  sacred 
feeling  in  both  their  hearts.  They  parted  with  an- 
other tranquil  look,  which  seemed  to  say:  'It  is  well 
with  us — we  have  drunk  of  happiness.' 

And  in  this  same  amazing  calm  Miltoun  remained 
after  he  had  gone  away,  till  about  half-past  nine  in 
the  evening,  he  started  forth,  to  walk  down  to  the 


THE  PATRICIAN  283 

House.  It  was  now  that  sort  of  warm,  clear  night, 
which  in  the  country  has  firefly  magic,  and  even  over 
the  Town  spreads  a  dark  glamour.  And  for  Mil- 
toun,  in  the  delight  of  his  new  health  and  well-being, 
with  every  sense  alive  and  clean,  to  walk  through  the 
warmth  and  beauty  of  this  night  was  sheer  pleasure. 
He  passed  by  way  of  St.  James's  Park,  treading 
down  the  purple  shadows  of  plane-tree  leaves  into 
the  pools  of  lamplight,  almost  with  remorse — so 
beautiful,  and  as  if  alive,  were  they.  There  were 
moths  abroad,  and  gnats,  born  on  the  water,  and 
scent  of  new-mown  grass  drifted  up  from  the  lawns. 
His  heart  felt  light  as  a  swallow  he  had  seen  that 
morning,  swooping  at  a  grey  feather,  carrying  it 
along,  letting  it  flutter  away,  then  diving  to  seize  it 
again.  Such  was  his  elation,  this  beautiful  night! 
Nearing  the  House  of  Commons,  he  thought  he  would 
walk  a  little  longer,  and  turned  westward  to  the  river. 
On  that  warm  evening  the  water,  without  movement 
at  turn  of  tide,  was  like  the  black,  snake-smooth  hair 
of  Nature  streaming  out  on  her  couch  of  Earth, 
waiting  for  the  caress  of  a  divine  hand.  Far  away 
on  the  further  bank  throbbed  some  huge  machine, 
not  stilled  as  yet.  A  few  stars  were  out  in  the  dark 
sky,  but  no  moon  to  invest  with  pallor  the  gleam 
of  the  lamps.  Scarcely  anyone  passed.  Miltoun 
strolled  along  the  river  wall,  then  crossed,  and  came 
back  in  front  of  the  Mansions  where  she  lived.  By 
the  railing  he  stood  still.  In  the  sitting-room  of  her 
little  flat  there  was  no  light,  but  the  casement  window 
was  wide  open,  and  the  crown  of  white  flowers  in  the 


284  THE  PATRICIAN 

bowl  on  the  window-sill  still  gleamed  out  In  the  dark- 
ness like  a  crescent  moon  lying  on  its  face.  Sud- 
denly, he  saw  two  pale  hands  rise  one  on  either  side 
of  that  bowl,  lift  it,  and  draw  it  in.  And  he  quivered, 
as  though  they  had  touched  him.  Again  those  two 
hands  came  floating  up;  they  were  parted  now  by 
darkness ;  the  moon  of  flowers  was  gone,  in  its  place 
had  been  set  handfuls  of  purple  or  crimson  blossoms. 
And  a  puff  of  warm  air  rising  quickly  out  of  the 
night  drifted  their  scent  of  cloves  into  his  face,  so 
that  he  held  his  breath  for  fear  of  calling  out  her 
name. 

Again  the  hands  had  vanished — through  the  open 
window  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  darkness; 
and  such  a  rush  of  longing  seized  on  Miltoun  as  stole 
from  him  all  power  of  movement.  He  could  hear 
her  playing,  now.  The  murmurous  current  of  that 
melody  was  like  the  night  itself,  sighing,  throbbing, 
languorously  soft.  It  seemed  that  in  this  music 
she  was  calling  him,  telling  him  that  she,  too,  was 
longing;  her  heart,  too,  empty.  It  died  away;  and 
at  the  window  her  white  figure  appeared.  From 
that  vision  he  could  not,  nor  did  he  try  to  shrink,  but 
moved  out  into  the  lamplight.  And  he  saw  her 
suddenly  stretch  out  her  hands  to  him,  and  withdraw 
them  to  her  breast.  Then  all  save  the  madness  of 
his  longing  deserted  Miltoun.  He  ran  down  the 
little  garden,  across  the  hall,  up  the  stairs. 

The  door  was  open.  He  passed  through.  There, 
in  the  sitting-room,  where  the  red  flowers  in  the 
window  scented  all  the  air,  it  was  dark,  and  he  could 


THE  PATRICIAN  285 

not  at  first  see  her,  till  against  the  piano  he  caught 
the  glimmer  of  her  white  dress.  She  was  sitting 
with  hands  resting  on  the  pale  notes.  And  falling 
on  his  knees,  he  buried  his  face  against  her.  Then, 
without  looking  up,  he  raised  his  hands.  Her  tears 
fell  on  them  covering  her  heart,  that  throbbed  as  if 
the  passionate  night  itself  were  breathing  in  there, 
and  all  but  the  night  and  her  love  had  stolen  forth. 


ON  a  spur  of  the  Sussex  Downs,  inland  from 
Nettlefold,  there  stands  a  beech-grove.  The  traveller 
who  enters  it  out  of  the  heat  and  brightness,  takes 
off  the  shoes  of  his  spirit  before  its  sanctity;  and, 
reaching  the  centre,  across  the  clean  beech-mat,  he 
sits  refreshing  his  brow  with  air,  and  silence.  For 
the  flowers  of  sunlight  on  the  ground  under  those 
branches  are  pale  and  rare,  no  insects  hum,  the  birds 
are  almost  mute.  And  close  to  the  border  trees  are 
the  quiet,  milk-white  sheep,  in  congregation,  escap- 
ing from  noon  heat.  Here,  above  fields  and  dwell- 
ings, above  the  ceaseless  network  of  men's  doings, 
and  the  vapour  of  their  talk,  the  traveller  feels 
solemnity.  All  seems  conveying  divinity — the  great 
white  clouds  moving  their  wings  above  him,  the  faint 
longing  murmur  of  the  boughs,  and  in  far  distance, 
the  sea.  And  for  a  space  his  restlessness  and  fear 
know  the  peace  of  God. 

So  it  was  with  Miltoun  when  he  reached  this 
temple,  three  days  after  that  passionate  night,  having 
walked  for  hours,  alone  and  full  of  conflict.  During 
those  three  days  he  had  been  borne  forward  on  the 
flood  tide;  and  now,  tearing  himself  out  of  London, 
where  to  think  was  impossible,  he  had  come  to  the 
solitude  of  the  Downs  to  walk,  and  face  his  new 
position. 

286 


THE  PATRICIAN  387 

For  that  position  he  saw  to  be  very  serious.  In 
the  flush  of  full  realization,  there  was  for  him  no 
question  of  renunciation.  She  was  his,  he  hers; 
that  was  determined.  But  what,  then,  was  he  to  do  ? 
There  was  no  chance  of  her  getting  free.  In  her 
husband's  view,  it  seemed,  under  no  circumstances 
was  marriage  dissoluble.  Nor,  indeed,  to  Miltoun 
would  divorce  have  made  things  easier,  believing  as 
he  did  that  he  and  she  were  guilty,  and  that  for  the 
guilty  there  could  be  no  marriage.  She,  it  was  true, 
asked  nothing  but  just  to  be  his  in  secret;  and  that 
was  the  course  he  knew  most  men  would  take,  with- 
out further  thought.  There  was  no  material  reason 
in  the  world  why  he  should  not  so  act,  and  maintain 
unchanged  every  other  current  of  his  life.  It  would 
be  easy,  usual.  And,  with  her  faculty  for  self- 
effacement,  he  knew  she  would  not  be  unhappy. 
But  conscience,  in  Miltoun,  was  a  terrible  and  fierce 
thing.  In  the  delirium  of  his  illness  it  had  become 
that  Great  Face  which  had  marched  over  him. 
And,  though  during  the  weeks  of  his  recuperation, 
struggle  of  all  kind  had  ceased,  now  that  he  had 
yielded  to  his  passion,  conscience,  in  a  new  and 
dismal  shape,  had  crept  up  again  to  sit  above  his 
heart.  He  must  and  would  let  this  man,  her  hus- 
band, know;  but  even  if  that  caused  no  open  scandal, 
could  he  go  on  deceiving  those  who,  if  they  knew  of 
an  illicit  love,  would  no  longer  allow  him  to  be  their 
representative?  If  it  were  known  that  she  was  his 
mistress,  he  could  no  longer  maintain  his  position 
in  public  life — was  he  not  therefore  in  honour  bound, 


288  THE  PATRICIAN 

of  his  own  accord,  to  resign  it?  Night  and  day  he 
was  haunted  by  the  thought:  How  can  I,  living  in 
defiance  of  authority,  pretend  to  authority  over  my 
fellows?  How  can  I  remain  in  public  life?  But  if 
he  did  not  remain  in  public  life,  what  was  he  to  do  ? 
That  way  of  life  was  in  his  blood ;  he  had  been  bred 
and  born  into  it;  had  thought  of  nothing  else  since 
he  was  a  boy.  There  was  no  other  occupation  or 
interest  that  could  hold  him  for  a  moment — he  saw 
very  plainly  that  he  would  be  cast  away  on  the 
waters  of  existence. 

So  the  battle  raged  in  his  proud  and  twisted  spirit, 
which  took  everything  so  hard — his  nature  impera- 
tively commanding  him  to  keep  his  work  and  his 
power  for  usefulness;  his  conscience  telling  him  as 
urgently  that  if  he  sought  to  wield  authority,  he  must 
obey  it. 

He  entered  the  beech-grove  at  the  height  of  this 
misery,  flaming  with  rebellion  against  the  dilemma 
which  Fate  had  placed  before  him;  visited  by  gusts 
of  resentment  against  a  passion,  which  forced  him  to 
pay  the  price,  either  of  hjs  career,  or  of  his  self- 
respect  ;  gusts,  followed  by  remorse  that  he  could  so 
for  one  moment  regret  his  love  for  that  tender 
creature.  The  face  of  Lucifer  was  not  more  dark, 
more  tortured,  than  Miltoun's  face  in  the  twilight  of 
the  grove,  above  those  kingdoms  of  the  world,  for 
which  his  ambition  and  his  conscience  fought.  He 
threw  himself  down  among  the  trees;  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  arms,  by  chance  touched  a  beetle  trying 
to  crawl  over  the  grassless  soil.  Some  bird  had 


THE  PATRICIAN  289 

maimed  it.  He  took  the  little  creature  up.  The 
beetle  truly  could  no  longer  work,  but  it  was  spared 
the  fate  lying  before  himself.  The  beetle  was  not, 
as  he  would  be,  when  his  power  of  movement  was 
destroyed,  conscious  of  his  own  wasted  life.  The 
world  would  not  roll  away  down  there.  He  would 
still  see  himself  cumbering  the  ground,  when  his 
powers  were  taken  from  him.  This  thought  was 
torture.  Why  had  he  been  suffered  to  meet  her,  to 
love  her,  and  to  be  loved  by  her?  What  had  made 
him  so  certain  from  the  first  moment,  if  she  were  not 
meant  for  him?  If  he  lived  to  be  a  hundred,  he 
would  never  meet  another.  Why,  because  of  his 
love,  must  he  bury  the  will  and  force  of  a  man  ?  If 
there  were  no  more  coherence  in  God's  scheme  than 
this,  let  him  too  be  incoherent!  Let  him  hold  au- 
thority, and  live  outside  authority!  Why  stifle  his 
powers  for  the  sake  of  a  coherence  which  did  not 
exist!  That  would  indeed  be  madness  greater  than 
that  of  a  mad  world! 

There  was  no  answer  to  his  thoughts  in  the  still- 
ness of  the  grove,  unless  it  were  the  cooing  of  a  dove, 
or  the  faint  thudding  of  the  sheep  issuing  again  into 
sunlight.  But  slowly  that  stillness  stole  into  Mil- 
toun's  spirit.  "Is  it  like  this  in  the  grave?"  he 
thought.  "Are  the  boughs  of  those  trees  the  dark 
earth  over  me?  And  the  sound  in  them  the  sound 
the  dead  hear  when  flowers  are  growing,  and  the 
wind  passing  through  them  ?  And  is  the  feel  of  this 
earth  how  it  feels  to  lie  looking  up  for  ever  at  nothing  ? 
Is  life  anything  but  a  nightmare,  a  dream;  and  is 


290  THE  PATRICIAN 

not  this  the  reality?  And  why  my  fury,  my  insig- 
nificant flame,  blowing  here  and  there,  when  there 
is  really  no  wind,  only  a  shroud  of  still  air,  and  these 
flowers  of  sunlight  that  have  been  dropped  on  me! 
Why  not  let  my  spirit  sleep,  instead  of  eating  itself 
away  with  rage;  why  not  resign  myself  at  once  to 
wait  for  the  substance,  of  which  this  is  but  the 
shadow!" 

And  he  lay  scarcely  breathing,  looking  up  at  the 
unmoving  branches  setting  with  their  darkness  the 
pearls  of  the  sky. 

"Is  not  peace  enough?"  he  thought.  "Is  not 
love  enough?  Can  I  not  be  reconciled,  like  a 
woman?  Is  not  that  salvation,  and  happiness? 
What  is  all  the  rest,  but  'sound  and  fury,  signifying 
nothing'?" 

And  as  though  afraid  to  lose  his  hold  of  that 
thought,  he  got  up  and  hurried  from  the  grove. 

The  whole  wide  landscape  of  field  and  wood,  cut 
by  the  pale  roads,  was  glimmering  under  the  after- 
noon sun.  Here  was  no  wild,  wind-swept  land, 
gleaming  red  and  purple,  and  guarded  by  the  grey 
rocks ;  no  home  of  the  winds,  and  the  wild  gods.  It 
was  all  serene  and  silver-golden.  In  place  of  the 
shrill  wailing  pipe  of  the  hunting  buzzard-hawks 
half  lost  up  in  the  wind,  invisible  larks  were  letting 
fall  hymns  to  tranquillity;  and  even  the  sea — no 
adventuring  spirit  sweeping  the  shore  with  its  wing 
— seemed  to  lie  resting  by  the  side  of  the  land. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHEN  on  the  afternoon  of  that  same  day  Miltoun 
lid  not  come,  all  the  chilly  doubts  which  his  presence 
alone  kept  away,  crowded  thick  and  fast  into  the 
mind  of  one  only  too  prone  to  distrust  her  own  hap- 
piness. It  could  not  last — how  could  it? 

His  nature  and  her  own  were  so  far  apart!  Even 
in  that  giving  of  herself  which  had  been  such  happi- 
ness, she  had  yet  doubted ;  for  there  was  so  much  in 
him  that  was  to  her  mysterious.  All  that  he  loved 
in  poetry  and  nature,  had  in  it  something  craggy 
and  culminating.  The  soft  and  fiery,  the  subtle  and 
harmonious,  seemed  to  leave  him  cold.  He  had  no 
particular  love  for  all  those  simple  natural  things, 
birds,  bees,  animals,  trees,  and  flowers,  that  seemed 
to  her  precious  and  divine. 

Though  it  was  not  yet  four  o'clock  she  was  already 
beginning  to  droop  like  a  flower  that  wants  water. 
But  she  sat  down  to  her  piano,  resolutely,  till  tea 
came;  playing  on  and  on  with  a  spirit  only  half 
present,  the  other  half  of  her  wandering  in  the 
Town,  seeking  for  Miltoun.  After  tea  she  tried 
first  to  read,  then  to  sew,  and  once  more  came  back 
to  her  piano.  The  clock  struck  six;  and  as  if  its 
last  stroke  had  broken  the  armour  of  her  mind,  she 
felt  suddenly  sick  with  anxiety.  Why  was  he  so 

291 


29  2  THE  PATRICIAN 

long?  But  she  kept  on  playing,  turning  the  pages 
without  taking  in  the  notes,  haunted  by  the  idea 
that  he  might  again  have  fallen  ill.  Should  she  tele- 
graph? What  good,  when  she  could  not  tell  in  the 
least  where  he  might  be?  And  all  the  unreasoning 
terror  of  not  knowing  where  the  loved  one  is,  beset 
her  so  that  her  hands,  in  sheer  numbness,  dropped 
from  the  keys.  Unable  to  keep  still,  now,  she  wan- 
dered from  window  to  door,  out  into  the  little  hall, 
and  back  hastily  to  the  window.  Over  her  anxiety 
brooded  a  darkness,  compounded  of  vague  growing 
fears.  What  if  it  were  the  end?  What  if  he  had 
chosen  this  as  the  most  merciful  way  of  leaving  her  ? 
But  surely  he  would  never  be  so  cruel!  Close  on  the 
heels  of  this  too  painful  thought  came  reaction ;  and 
she  told  herself  that  she  was  a  fool.  He  was  at  the 
House;  something  quite  ordinary  was  keeping  him. 
It  was  absurd  to  be  anxious !  She  would  have  to  get 
used  to  this  now.  To  be  a  drag  on  him  would  be 
dreadful.  Sooner  than  that  she  would  rather — yes — 
rather  he  never  came  back!  And  she  took  up  her 
book,  determined  to  read  quietly  till  he  came.  But 
the  moment  she  sat  down  her  fears  returned  with 
redoubled  force — the  cold  sickly  horrible  feeling  of 
uncertainty,  of  the  knowledge  that  she  could  do 
nothing  but  wait  till  she  was  relieved  by  something 
over  which  she  had  no  control.  And  in  the  super- 
stition that  to  stay  there  in  the  window  where  she 
could  see  him  come,  was  keeping  him  from  her,  she 
went  into  her  bedroom.  From  there  she  could  watch 
the  sunset  clouds  wine-dark  over  the  river.  A  little 


THE  PATRICIAN  293 

talking  wind  shivered  along  the  houses;  the  dusk 
began  creeping  in.  She  would  not  turn  on  the  light, 
unwilling  to  admit  that  it  was  really  getting  late,  but 
began  to  change  her  dress,  lingering  desperately  over 
every  little  detail  of  her  toilette,  deriving  therefrom 
a  faint,  mysterious  comfort,  trying  to  make  herself 
feel  beautiful.  From  sheer  dread  of  going  back 
before  he  came,  she  let  her  hair  fall,  though  it  was 
quite  smooth  and  tidy,  and  began  brushing  it. 
Suddenly  she  thought  with  horror  of  her  efforts  at 
adornment — by  specially  preparing  for  him,  she 
must  seem  presumptuous  to  Fate.  At  any  little 
sound  she  stopped  and  stood  listening — save  for  her 
hair  and  eyes,  as  white  from  head  to  foot  as  a  double 
narcissus  flower  in  the  dusk,  bending  towards  some 
faint  tune  played  to  it  somewhere  out  in  the  fields. 
But  all  those  little  sounds  ceased,  one  after  another 
— they  had  meant  nothing ;  and  each  time,  her  spirit 
returning  within  the  pale  walls  of  the  room,  began 
once  more  to  inhabit  her  lingering  fingers.  During 
that  hour  in  her  bedroom  she  lived  through  years. 
It  was  dark  when  she  left  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHEN  Miltoun  at  last  came  it  was  past  nine 
o'clock. 

Silent,  but  quivering  all  over,  she  clung  to  him  in 
the  hall;  and  this  passion  of  emotion,  without  sound 
to  give  it  substance,  affected  him  profoundly.  How 
terribly  sensitive  and  tender  she  was!  She  seemed 
to  have  no  armour.  But  though  so  stirred  by  her 
emotion,  he  was  none  the  less  exasperated.  She  in- 
carnated at  that  moment  the  life  to  which  he  must 
now  resign  himself — a  life  of  unending  tenderness, 
consideration,  and  passivity. 

For  a  long  time  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak 
of  his  decision.  Every  look  of  her  eyes,  every  move- 
ment of  her  body,  seemed  pleading  with  him  to  keep 
silence.  But  in  Miltoun's  character  there  was  an  ele- 
ment of  rigidity,  which  never  suffered  him  to  diverge 
from  an  objective  once  determined. 

When  he  had  finished  telling  her,  she  only  said : 

"Why  can't  we  go  on  in  secret?" 

And  he  felt  with  a  sort  of  horror  that  he  must 
begin  his  struggle  over  again.  He  got  up,  and  threw 
open  the  window.  The  sky  was  dark  above  the 
river;  the  wind  had  risen.  That  restless  murmura- 
tion,  and  the  width  of  the  night  with  its  scattered 
stars  seemed  to  come  rushing  at  his  face.  He  with- 

294 


THE  PATRICIAN  295 

drew  from  it,  and  leaning  on  the  sill  looked  down 
at  her.  What  flower-like  delicacy  she  had!  There 
flashed  across  him  the  memory  of  a  drooping  blossom, 
which,  in  the  Spring,  he  had  seen  her  throw  into  the 
flames,  with  the  words:  "I  can't  bear  flowers  to 
fade,  I  always  want  to  burn  them."  He  could  see 
again  those  waxen  petals  yield  to  the  fierce  clutch  of 
the  little  red  creeping  sparks,  and  the  slender  stalk 
quivering,  and  glowing,  and  writhing  to  blackness 
like  a  live  thing.  And,  distraught,  he  began : 

"I  can't  live  a  lie.  What  right  have  I  to  lead,  if  I 
can't  follow?  I'm  not  like  our  friend  Courtier  who 
believes  in  Liberty.  I  never  have,  I  never  shall. 
Liberty?  What  is  Liberty?  But  only  those  who 
conform  to  authority  have  the  right  to  wield  authority. 
A  man  is  a  churl  who  enforces  laws,  when  he  himself 
has  not  the  strength  to  observe  them.  I  will  not  be 
one  of  whom  it  can  be  said:  'He  can  rule  others, 
himself !" 

"No  one  will  know." 

Miltoun  turned  away. 

"I  shall  know,"  he  said;  but  he  saw  clearly  that 
she  did  not  understand  him.  Her  face  had  a  strange, 
brooding,  shut-away  look,  as  though  he  had  fright- 
ened her.  And  the  thought  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand, angered  him. 

He  said,  stubbornly:  "No,  I  can't  remain  in  pub- 
lic life." 

"But  what  has  it  to  do  with  politics?  It's  such  a 
little  thing." 

"If  it  had  been  a  little  thing  to  me,  should  I  have 


296  THE  PATRICIAN 

left  you  at  Monkland,  and  spent  those  five  weeks  in 
purgatory  before  my  illness?  A  little  thing!" 

She  exclaimed  with  sudden  fire: 

"Circumstances  are  the  little  thing;  it's  love  that's 
the  great  thing." 

Miltoun  stared  at  her,  for  the  first  time  under- 
standing that  she  had  a  philosophy  as  deep  and  stub- 
born as  his  own.  But  he  answered  cruelly: 

"Well!  the  great  thing  has  conquered  me!" 

And  then  he  saw  her  looking  at  him,  as  if,  seeing 
into  the  recesses  of  his  soul,  she  had  made  some 
ghastly  discovery.  The  look  was  so  mournful,  so 
uncannily  intent  that  he  turned  away  from  it. 

"Perhaps  it  is  a  little  thing,"  he  muttered;  "I 
don't  know.  I  can't  see  my  way.  I've  lost  my 
bearings;  I  must  find  them  again  before  I  can  do 
anything." 

But  as  if  she  had  not  heard,  or  not  taken  in  the 
sense  of  his  words,  she  said  again: 

"Oh!  don't  let  us  alter  anything;  I  won't  ever 
want  what  you  can't  give." 

And  this  stubbornness,  when  he  was  doing  the 
very  thing  that  would  give  him  to  her  utterly,  seemed 
to  him  unreasonable. 

"I've  had  it  out  with  myself,"  he  said.  "Don't 
let's  talk  about  it  any  more." 

Again,  with  a  sort  of  dry  anguish,  she  murmured : 

"No,  no!    Let  us  go  on  as  we  are!" 

Feeling  that  he  had  borne  all  he  could,  Miltoun 
put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  said:  "That's 
enough!" 


THE  PATRICIAN  297 

Then,  in  sudden  remorse,  he  lifted  her,  and  clasped 
her  to  him. 

But  she  stood  inert  in  his  arms,  her  eyes  closed,  not 
returning  his  kisses. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ON  the  last  day  before  Parliament  rose,  Lord 
Valleys,  with  a  light  heart,  mounted  his  horse  for  a 
gallop  in  the  Row.  Though  she  was  a  blood  mare 
he  rode  her  with  a  plain  snaffle,  having  the  horse- 
manship of  one  who  has  hunted  from  the  age  of 
seven,  and  been  for  twenty  years  a  Colonel  of 
Yeomanry.  Greeting  affably  everyone  he  knew,  he 
maintained  a  frank  demeanour  on  all  subjects, 
especially  of  Government  policy,  secretly  enjoying 
the  surmises  and  prognostications,  so  pleasantly  wide 
of  the  mark,  and  the  way  questions  and  hints  per- 
ished before  his  sphinx-like  candour.  He  spoke 
cheerily  too  of  Miltoun,  who  was  'all  right  again,' 
and  'burning  for  the  fray'  when  the  House  met 
again  in  the  autumn.  And  he  chaffed  Lord  Mal- 
vezin  about  his  wife.  If  anything — he  said — could 
make  Bertie  take  an  interest  in  politics,  it  would  be 
she.  He  had  two  capital  gallops,  being  well  known 
to  the  police.  The  day  was  bright,  and  he  was  sorry 
to  turn  home.  Falling  in  with  Harbinger,  he  asked 
him  to  come  back  to  lunch.  There  had  seemed 
something  different  lately,  an  almost  morose  look, 
about  young  Harbinger;  and  his  wife's  disquieting 
words  about  Barbara  came  back  to  Lord  Valleys 

298 


THE  PATRICIAN  299 

with  a  shock.  He  had  seen  little  of  the  child  lately, 
and  in  the  general  clearing  up  of  this  time  of  year 
had  forgotten  all  about  the  matter. 

Agatha,  who  was  still  staying  at  Valleys  House 
with  little  Ann,  waiting  to  travel  up  to  Scotland 
with  her  mother,  was  out,  and  there  was  no  one 
at  lunch  except  Lady  Valleys  and  Barbara  herself. 
Conversation  flagged;  for  the  young  people  were 
extremely  silent,  Lady  Valleys  was  considering  the 
draft  of  a  report  which  had  to  be  settled  before  she 
left,  and  Lord  Valleys  himself  was  rather  carefully 
watching  his  daughter.  The  news  that  Lord  Mil- 
toun  was  in  the  study  came  as  a  surprise,  and  some- 
what of  a  relief  to  all.  To  an  exhortation  to  bring 
him  in  to  lunch,  the  servant  replied  that  Lord  Mil- 
toun  had  lunched,  and  would  wait. 

"Does  he  know  there's  no  one  here?" 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

Lady  Valleys  pushed  back  her  plate,  and  rose: 

"Oh,  well!"  she  said,  "I've  finished." 

Lord  Valleys  also  got  up,  and  they  went  out  to- 
gether, leaving  Barbara,  who  had  risen,  looking 
doubtfully  at  the  door. 

Lord  Valleys  had  recently  been  told  of  the  nursing 
episode,  and  had  received  the  news  with  the  dubious 
air  of  one  hearing  something  about  an  eccentric  per- 
son, which,  heard  about  anyone  else,  could  have  had 
but  one  significance.  If  Eustace  had  been  a  normal 
young  man  his  father  would  have  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  thought:  "Oh,  well!  There  it  is!" 
As  it  was,  he  had  literally  not  known  what  to  think. 


300  THE  PATRICIAN 

And  now,  crossing  the  saloon  which  intervened  be- 
tween the  dining-room  and  the  study,  he  said  to  his 
wife  uneasily: 

"Is  it  this  woman  again,  Gertrude — or  what?" 

Lady  Valleys  answered  with  a  shrug: 

"Goodness  knows,  my  dear." 

Miltoun  was  standing  in  the  embrasure  of  a  win- 
dow above  the  terrace.  He  looked  well,  and  his 
greeting  was  the  same  as  usual. 

"Well,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Lord  Valleys, "you're 
all  right  again  evidently — what's  the  news?" 

"Only  that  I've  decided  to  resign  my  seat." 

Lord  Valleys  stared. 

"What  on  earth  for?" 

But  Lady  Valleys,  with  the  greater  quickness  of 
women,  divining  already  something  of  the  reason, 
had  flushed  a  deep  pink. 

"Nonsense,  my  dear,"  she  said;  "it  can't  possibly 

be  necessary,  even  if "  Recovering  herself,  she 

added  dryly: 

"Give  us  some  reason." 

"The  reason  is  simply  that  I've  joined  my  life  to 
Mrs.  Noel's,  and  I  can't  go  on  as  I  am,  living  a  lie. 
If  it  were  known  I  should  obviously  have  to  resign 
at  once." 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Lord  Valleys. 

Lady  Valleys  made  a  rapid  movement.  In  the 
face  of  what  she  felt  to  be  a  really  serious  crisis  be- 
tween these  two  utterly  different  creatures  of  the 
other  sex,  her  husband  and  her  son,  she  had  dropped 
her  mask  and  become  a  genuine  woman.  Uncon- 


THE  PATRICIAN  301 

sciously  both  men  felt  this  change,  and  in  speaking, 
turned  towards  her. 

"I  can't  argue  it,"  said  Miltoun;  "I  consider  my- 
self bound  in  honour." 

"And  then?"  she  asked. 

Lord  Valleys,  with  a  note  of  real  feeling,  inter- 
jected : 

"By  Heaven!  I  did  think  you  put  your  country 
above  your  private  affairs." 

"Geoff!"  said  Lady  Valleys. 

But  Lord  Valleys  went  on: 

"No,  Eustace,  I'm  out  of  touch  with  your  view 
of  things  altogether.  I  don't  even  begin  to  under- 
stand it." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Miltoun. 

"Listen  to  me,  both  of  you!"  said  Lady  Valleys: 
"You  two  are  altogether  different;  and  you  must 
not  quarrel.  I  won't  have  that.  Now,  Eustace,  you 
are  our  son,  and  you  have  got  to  be  kind  and  con- 
siderate. Sit  down,  and  let's  talk  it  over." 

And  motioning  her  husband  to  a  chair,  she  sat 
down  in  the  embrasure  of  a  window.  Miltoun  re- 
mained standing.  Visited  by  a  sudden  dread,  Lady 
Valleys  said: 

"Is  it — you've  not — there  isn't  going  to  be  a 
scandal?" 

Miltoun  smiled  grimly. 

"I  shall  tell  this  man,  of  course,  but  you  may 
make  your  minds  easy,  I  imagine;  I  understand 
that  his  view  of  marriage  does  not  permit  of  divorce 
in  any  case  whatever." 


302  THE  PATRICIAN 

Lady  Valleys  sighed  with  an  utter  and  undis- 
guised relief. 

"Well,  then,  my  dear  boy,"  she  began,  "even  if 
you  do  feel  you  must  tell  him,  there  is  surely  no 
reason  why  it  should  not  otherwise  be  kept  secret." 

Lord  Valleys  interrupted  her: 

"I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  point  out  the  con- 
nection between  your  honour  and  the  resignation  of 
your  seat,"  he  said  stiffly. 

Miltoun  shook  his  head. 

"If  you  don't  see  already,  it  would  be  useless." 

"I  do  not  see.  The  whole  matter  is — is  unfortu- 
nate, but  to  give  up  your  work,  so  long  as  there  is 
no  absolute  necessity,  seems  to  me  far-fetched  and 
absurd.  How  many  men  are  there  into  whose  lives 
there  has  not  entered  some  such  relation  at  one  time 
or  another?  This  idea  would  disqualify  half  the 
nation."  His  eyes  seemed  in  that  crisis  both  to  con- 
sult and  to  avoid  his  wife's,  as  though  he  were  at 
once  asking  her  endorsement  of  his  point  of  view, 
and  observing  the  proprieties.  And  for  a  moment 
in  the  midst  of  her  anxiety,  her  sense  of  humour  got 
the  better  of  Lady  Valleys.  It  was  so  funny  that 
Geoff  should  have  to  give  himself  away;  she  could 
not  for  the  life  of  her  help  fixing  him  with  her  eyes. 

"My  dear,"  she  murmured,  "you  underestimate — 
three-quarters,  at  the  very  least!" 

But  Lord  Valleys,  confronted  with  danger,  was 
growing  steadier. 

"It  passes  my  comprehension,"  he  said,  "why 
you  should  want  to  mix  up  sex  and  politics  at  all." 


THE  PATRICIAN  503 

Miltoun's  answer  came  very  slowly,  as  if  the  con- 
fession were  hurting  his  lips: 

"There  is — forgive  me  for  using  the  word — such  a 
thing  as  one's  religion.  I  don't  happen  to  regard 
life  as  divided  into  public  and  private  departments. 
My  vision  is  gone — broken — I  can  see  no  object 
before  me  now  in  public  life — no  goal — no  certainty." 

Lady  Valleys  caught  his  hand: 

"Oh!  my  dear,"  she  said,  "that's  too  dreadfully 
puritanical!"  But  at  Miltoun's  queer  smile,  she 
added  hastily:  "Logical — I  mean." 

"Consult  your  common  sense,  Eustace,  for  good- 
ness' sake,"  broke  in  Lord  Valleys.  "Isn't  it  your 
simple  duty  to  put  your  scruples  in  your  pocket,  and 
do  the  best  you  can  for  your  country  with  the  powers 
that  have  been  given  you?" 

"I  have  no  common  sense." 

"  In  that  case,  of  course,  it  may  be  just  as  well  that 
you  should  leave  public  life." 

Miltoun  bowed. 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Lady  Valleys.  "You  don't 
understand,  Geoffrey.  I  ask  you  again,  Eustace, 
what  will  you  do  afterwards?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  will  eat  your  heart  out." 

"Quite  possibly." 

"If  you  can't  come  to  a  reasonable  arrangement 
with  your  conscience,"  again  broke  in  Lord  Valleys, 
"for  Heaven's  sake  give  her  up,  like  a  man,  and  cut 
all  these  knots." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir!"  said  Miltoun  icily. 


304  THE  PATRICIAN 

Lady  Valleys  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "You 
must  allow  us  a  little  logic  too,  my  dear.  You  don't 
seriously  imagine  that  she  would  wish  you  to  throw 
away  your  life  for  her  ?  I'm  not  such  a  bad  judge  of 
character  as  that." 

She  stopped  before  the  expression  on  Miltoun's  face. 

"You  go  too  fast,"  he  said;  "I  may  become  a  free 
spirit  yet." 

To  this  saying,  which  seemed  to  her  cryptic  and 
sinister,  Lady  Valleys  did  not  know  what  to  answer. 

"If  you  feel,  as  you  say,"  Lord  Valleys  began  once 
more,  "that  the  bottom  has  been  knocked  out  of 
things  for  you  by  this — this  affair,  don't,  for  goodness' 
sake,  do  anything  in  a  hurry.  Wait!  Go  abroad! 
Get  your  balance  back!  You'll  find  the  thing  settle 
itself  in  a  few  months.  Don't  precipitate  matters; 
you  can  make  your  health  an  excuse  to  miss  the 
Autumn  session." 

Lady  Valleys  chimed  in  eagerly: 

"You  really  are  seeing  the  thing  out  of  all  propor- 
tion. What  is  a  love-affair.  My  dear  boy,  do  you 
suppose  for  a  moment  anyone  would  think  the  worse 
of  you,  even  if  they  knew?  And  really  not  a  soul 
need  know." 

"It  has  not  occurred  to  me  to  consider  what  they 
would  think." 

"Then,"  cried  Lady  Valleys,  nettled,  "it's  simply 
your  own  pride." 

"You  have  said." 

Lord  Valleys,  who  had  turned  away,  spoke  in  an 
almost  tragic  voice: 


THE  PATRICIAN  305 

"I  did  not  think  that  on  a  point  of  honour  I  should 
differ  from  my  son." 

Catching  at  the  word  honour,  Lady  Valleys  cried 
suddenly : 

"Eustace,  promise  me,  before  you  do  anything,  to 
consult  your  Uncle  Dennis." 

Miltoun  smiled. 

"This  becomes  comic,"  he  said. 

At  that  word,  which  indeed  seemed  to  them  quite 
wanton,  Lord  and  Lady  Valleys  turned  on  their  son, 
and  the  three  stood  staring,  perfectly  silent.  A  little 
noise  from  the  doorway  interrupted  them. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LEFT  by  her  father  and  mother  to  the  further  enter- 
tainment of  Harbinger,  Barbara  had  said: 

"Let's  have  coffee  in  here,"  and  passed  into  the 
withdrawing  room. 

Except  for  that  one  evening,  when  together  by  the 
sea  wall  they  stood  contemplating  the  populace,  she 
had  not  been  alone  with  him  since  he  kissed  her 
under  the  shelter  of  the  box  hedge.  And  now,  after 
the  first  moment,  she  looked  at  him  calmly,  though 
in  her  breast  there  was  a  fluttering,  as  if  an  im- 
prisoned bird  were  struggling  ever  so  feebly  against 
that  soft  and  solid  cage.  Her  last  jangled  talk  with 
Courtier  had  left  an  ache  in  her  heart.  Besides,  did 
she  not  know  all  that  Harbinger  could  give  her  ? 

Like  a  nymph  pursued  by  a  faun  who  held  domin- 
ion over  the  groves,  she,  fugitive,  kept  looking  back. 
There  was  nothing  in  that  fair  wood  of  his  with 
which  she  was  not  familiar,  no  thicket  she  had  not 
travelled,  no  stream  she  had  not  crossed,  no  kiss  she 
could  not  return.  His  was  a  discovered  land,  in 
which,  as  of  right,  she  would  reign.  She  had  nothing 
to  hope  from  him  but  power,  and  solid  pleasure. 
Her  eyes  said:  How  am  I  to  know  whether  I  shall 
not  want  more  than  you ;  feel  suffocated  in  your  arms; 

306 


THE  PATRICIAN  307 

be  surfeited  by  all  that  you  will  bring  me  ?  Have  I 
not  already  got  all  that  ? 

She  knew,  from  his  downcast  gloomy  face,  how 
cruel  she  seemed,  and  was  sorry.  She  wanted  to  be 
good  to  him,  and  said  almost  shyly: 

"Are  you  angry  with  me,  Claud?" 

Harbinger  looked  up. 

"What  makes  you  so  cruel?" 

"I  am  not  cruel." 

"You  are.    Where  is  your  heart?" 

"Here!"  said  Barbara,  touching  her  breast. 

"Ah!"  muttered  Harbinger;  "Pm  not  joking." 

She  said  gently: 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that,  my  dear?" 

But  the  softness  of  her  voice  seemed  to  fan  the 
smouldering  fires  in  him. 

"There's  something  behind  all  this,"  he  stam- 
mered, "you've  no  right  to  make  a  fool  of  me!" 

"And  what  is  the  something,  please?" 

"That's  for  you  to  say.  But  I'm  not  blind.  What 
about  this  fellow  Courtier?" 

At  that  moment  there  was  revealed  to  Barbara  a 
new  acquaintance — the  male  proper.  No,  to  live 
with  him  would  not  be  quite  lacking  in  adventure ! 

His  face  had  darkened;  his  eyes  were  dilated,  his 
whole  figure  seemed  to  have  grown.  She  suddenly 
noticed  the  hair  which  covered  his  clenched  fists.  All 
his  suavity  had  left  him.  He  came  very  close. 

How  long  that  look  between  them  lasted,  and  of 
all  there  was  in  it,  she  had  no  clear  knowledge; 
thought  after  thought,  wave  after  wave  of  feeling, 


308  THE  PATRICIAN 

rushed  through  her.  Revolt  and  attraction,  contempt 
and  admiration,  queer  sensations  of  disgust  and 
pleasure,  all  mingled — as  on  a  May  day  one  may 
see  the  hail  fall,  and  the  sun  suddenly  burn  through 
and  steam  from  the  grass. 

Then  he  said  hoarsely: 

"Oh!  Babs,  you  madden  me  so!" 

Smoothing  her  lips,  as  if  to  regain  control  of  them, 
she  answered: 

"Yes,  I  think  I  have  had  enough,"  and  went  out 
into  her  father's  study. 

The  sight  of  Lord  and  Lady  Valleys  so  intently 
staring  at  Miltoun  restored  her  self-possession. 

It  struck  her  as  slightly  comic,  not  knowing  that 
the  little  scene  was  the  outcome  of  that  word.  In 
truth,  the  contrast  between  Miltoun  and  his  parents 
at  this  moment  was  almost  ludicrous. 

Lady  Valleys  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Better  comic  than  romantic.  I  suppose  Barbara 
may  know,  considering  her  contribution  to  this  mat- 
ter. Your  brother  is  resigning  his  seat,  my  dear; 
his  conscience  will  not  permit  him  to  retain  it,  under 
certain  circumstances  that  have  arisen." 

"Oh!"  cried  Barbara:   "but  surely " 

"The  matter  has  been  argued,  Babs,"  Lord  Valleys 
said  shortly;  "unless  you  have  some  better  reason  to 
advance  than  those  of  ordinary  common  sense,  pub- 
lic spirit,  and  consideration  for  one's  family,  it  will 
hardly  be  worth  your  while  to  reopen  the  discussion." 

Barbara  looked  up  at  Miltoun,  whose  face,  all  but 
the  eyes,  was  like  a  mask. 


THE  PATRICIAN  309 

"Oh,  Eusty!"  she  said,  "you're  not  going  to  spoil 
your  life  like  this!  Just  think  how  I  shall  feel." 

Miltoun  answered  stonily: 

"You  did  what  you  thought  right;  as  I  am  doing." 

"Does  she  want  you  to?" 

"No." 

"There  is,  I  should  imagine,"  put  in  Lord  Valleys, 
"not  a  solitary  creature  in  the  whole  world  except 
your  brother  himself  who  would  wish  for  this  con- 
summation. But  with  him  such  a  consideration 
does  not  weigh!" 

"Oh!"  sighed  Barbara;  "think  of  Granny!" 

"I  prefer  not  to  think  of  her,"  murmured  Lady 
Valleys. 

"  She's  so  wrapped  up  in  you,  Eusty.  She  always 
has  believed  in  you  intensely." 

Miltoun  sighed.  And,  encouraged  by  that  sound, 
Barbara  went  closer. 

It  was  plain  enough  that,  behind  his  impassivity, 
a  desperate  struggle  was  going  on  in  Miltoun.  He 
spoke  at  last: 

"If  I  have  not  already  yielded  to  one  who  is 
naturally  more  to  me  than  anything,  when  she 
begged  and  entreated,  it  is  because  I  feel  this  in  a 
way  you  don't  realize.  I  apologize  for  using  the 
word  comic  just  now,  I  should  have  said  tragic.  I'll 
enlighten  Uncle  Dennis,  if  that  will  comfort  you; 
but  this  is  not  exactly  a  matter  for  anyone,  except 
myself."  And,  without  another  look  or  word,  he 
went  out. 

As  the  door  closed,  Barbara  ran  towards  it;  and, 


310  THE  PATRICIAN 

with  a  motion  strangely  like  the  wringing  of  hands, 
said: 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh!  dear!"  Then,  turning  away 
to  a  bookcase,  she  began  to  cry. 

This  ebullition  of  feeling,  surpassing  even  their 
own,  came  as  a  real  shock  to  Lady  and  Lord  Valleys, 
ignorant  of  how  strung-up  she  had  been  before  she 
entered  the  room.  They  had  not  seen  Barbara  cry 
since  she  was  a  tiny  girl.  And  in  face  of  her  emotion 
any  animus  they  might  have  shown  her  for  having 
thrown  Miltoun  into  Mrs.  Noel's  arms,  now  melted 
away.  Lord  Valleys,  especially  moved,  went  up  to 
his  daughter,  and  stood  with  her  in  that  dark  corner, 
saying  nothing,  but  gently  stroking  her  hand.  Lady 
Valleys,  who  herself  felt  very  much  inclined  to  cry, 
went  out  of  sight  into  the  embrasure  of  the  window, 

Barbara's  sobbing  was  soon  subdued. 

"It's  his  face,"  she  said:  "And  why?  Why?  It's 
so  unnecessary!" 

Lord  Valleys,  continually  twisting  his  moustache, 
muttered : 

"Exactly!    He  makes  things  for  himself!" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Lady  Valleys  from  the  window, 
"he  was  always  uncomfortable,  like  that.  I  remem- 
ber him  as  a  baby.  Bertie  never  was." 

And  then  the  silence  was  only  broken  by  the  little 
angry  sounds  of  Barbara  blowing  her  nose. 

"I  shall  go  and  see  mother,"  said  Lady  Valleys, 
suddenly:  "The  boy's  whole  life  may  be  ruined  if 
we  can't  stop  this.  Are  you  coming,  child?" 

But  Barbara  refused. 


THE  PATRICIAN  311 

She  went  to  her  room,  instead.  This  crisis  in 
Miltoun's  life  had  strangely  shaken  her.  It  was  as 
if  Fate  had  suddenly  revealed  all  that  any  step  out 
of  the  beaten  path  might  lead  to,  had  brought  her 
sharply  up  against  herself.  To  wing  out  into  the 
blue!  See  what  it  meant!  If  Miltoun  kept  to  his 
resolve,  and  gave  up  public  life,  he  was  los"!  And 
she  herself!  The  fascination  of  Courtier's  chivalrous 
manner,  of  a  sort  of  innate  gallantry,  suggesting  the 
quest  of  everlasting  danger — was  it  not  rather  absurd  ? 
And — was  she  fascinated?  Was  it  not  simply  that 
she  liked  the  feeling  of  fascinating  him?  Through 
the  maze  of  these  thoughts,  darted  the  memory  of 
Harbinger's  face  close  to  her  own,  his  clenched  hands, 
the  swift  revelation  of  his  dangerous  masculinity. 
It  was  all  a  nightmare  of  scaring  queer  sensations,  of 
things  that  could  never  be  settled.  She  was  stirred 
for  once  out  of  all  her  normal  conquering  philosophy. 
Her  thoughts  flew  back  to  Miltoun.  That  which  she 
had  seen  in  their  faces,  then,  had  come  to  pass! 
And  picturing  Agatha's  horror,  when  she  came  to 
hear  of  it,  Barbara  could  not  help  a  smile.  Poor 
Eustace !  Why  did  he  take  things  so  hardly  ?  If  he 
really  carried  out  his  resolve — and  he  never  changed 
his  mind — it  would  be  tragic!  It  would  mean  the 
end  of  everything  for  him! 

Perhaps  now  he  would  get  tired  of  Mrs.  Noel. 
But  she  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  a  man  would 
get  tired  of.  Even  Barbara  in  her  inexperience  felt 
that.  She  would  always  be  too  delicately  careful 
never  to  cloy  him,  never  to  exact  anything  from  him, 


312  THE  PATRICIAN 

or  let  him  feel  that  he  was  bound  to  her  by  so  much 
as  a  hair.  Ah!  why  couldn't  they  go  on  as  if  nothing 
had  happened  ?  Could  nobody  persuade  him  ?  She 
thought  again  of  Courtier.  If  he,  who  knew  them 
both,  and  was  so  fond  of  Mrs.  Noel,  would  talk  to 
Miltoun,  about  the  right  to  be  happy,  the  right  to 
revolt?  Eustace  ought  to  revolt!  It  was  his  duty. 
She  sat  down  to  write;  then,  putting  on  her  hat, 
took  the  note  and  slipped  downstairs. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  flowers  of  summer  in  the  great  glass  house  at 
Ravensham  were  keeping  the  last  afternoon-watch 
when  Clifton  summoned  Lady  Casterley  with  the 
words: 

"Lady  Valleys  in  the  white  room." 

Since  the  news  of  Miltoun's  illness,  and  of  Mrs. 
Noel's  nursing,  the  little  old  lady  had  possessed  her 
soul  in  patience;  often,  it  is  true,  afflicted  with  poig- 
nant misgivings  as  to  this  new  influence  in  the  life 
of  her  favourite,  affected  too  by  a  sort  of  jealousy, 
not  to  be  admitted,  even  in  her  prayers,  which,  though 
regular  enough,  were  perhaps  somewhat  formal. 
Having  small  liking  now  for  leaving  home,  even  for 
Catton,  her  country  place,  she  was  still  at  Ravensham, 
where  Lord  Dennis  had  come  up  to  stay  with  her  as 
soon  as  Miltoun  had  left  Sea  House.  But  Lady 
Casterley  was  never  very  dependent  on  company. 
She  retained  unimpaired  her  intense  interest  in  pol- 
itics, and  still  corresponded  freely  with  prominent 
men.  Of  late,  too,  a  slight  revival  of  the  June  war 
scare  had  made  its  mark  on  her  in  a  certain  rejuven- 
escence, which  always  accompanied  her  contempla- 
tion of  national  crises,  even  when  such  were  a  little 
in  the  air.  At  blast  of  trumpet  her  spirit  still  leaped 
forward,  unsheathed  its  sword,  and  stood  at  the 

313 


3H  THE  PATRICIAN 

salute.  At  such  times,  she  rose  earlier,  went  to  bed 
later,  was  far  less  susceptible  to  draughts,  and  re- 
fused with  asperity  any  food  between  meals.  She 
wrote  too  with  her  own  hand  letters  which  she  would 
otherwise  have  dictated  to  her  secretary.  Unfortu- 
nately the  scare  had  died  down  again  almost  at  once ; 
and  the  passing  of  danger  always  left  her  rather 
irritable.  Lady  Valleys'  visit  came  as  a  timely 
consolation. 

She  kissed  her  daughter  critically;  for  there  was 
that  about  her  manner  which  she  did  not  like. 

"Yes,  of  course  I  am  well!"  she  said.  "Why 
didn't  you  bring  Barbara?" 

"She  was  tired!" 

"H'm!  Afraid  of  meeting  me,  since  she  com- 
mitted that  piece  of  folly  over  Eustace.  You  must 
be  careful  of  that  child,  Gertrude,  or  she  will  be 
doing  something  silly  herself.  I  don't  like  the  way 
she  keeps  Claud  Harbinger  hanging  in  the  wind." 

Her  daughter  cut  her  short: 

"There  is  bad  news  about  Eustace." 

Lady  Casterley  lost  the  little  colour  in  her  cheeks; 
lost,  too,  all  her  superfluity  of  irritable  energy. 

"Tell  me,  at  once!" 

Having  heard,  she  said  nothing;  but  Lady  Valleys 
noticed  with  alarm  that  over  her  eyes  had  come  sud- 
denly the  peculiar  filminess  of  age. 

"Well,  what  do  you  advise?"  she  asked. 

Herself  tired,  and  troubled,  she  was  conscious  of  a 
quite  unwonted  feeling  of  discouragement  before  this 
silent  little  figure,  in  the  silent  white  room.  She  had 


THE  PATRICIAN  315 

never  before  seen  her  mother  look  as  if  she  heard 
Defeat  passing  on  its  dark  wings.  And  moved  by 
sudden  tenderness  for  the  little  frail  body  that  had 
borne  her  so  long  ago,  she  murmured  almost  with 
surprise: 

"Mother,  dear!" 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Casterley,  as  if  speaking  to  her- 
self, "the  boy  saves  things  up;  he  stores  his  feelings 
— they  burst  and  sweep  him  away.  First  his  pas- 
sion; now  his  conscience.  There  are  two  men  in 
him;  but  this  will  be  the  death  of  one  of  them." 
And  suddenly  turning  on  her  daughter,  she  said: 

"Did  you  ever  hear  about  him  at  Oxford,  Ger- 
trude? He  broke  out  once,  and  ate  husks  with 
the  Gadarenes.  You  never  knew.  Of  course — you 
never  have  known  anything  of  him." 

Resentment  rose  in  Lady  Valleys,  that  anyone 
should  know  her  son  better  than  herself;  but  she 
lost  it  again  looking  at  the  little  figure,  and  said, 
sighing: 

"Well?" 

Lady  Casterley  murmured: 

"  Go  away,  child ;  I  must  think.  You  say  he's  to 
consult  Dennis?  Do  you  know  her  address?  Ask 
Barbara  when  you  get  back  and  telephone  it  to  me. 
And  at  her  daughter's  kiss,  she  added  grimly: 

"I  shall  live  to  see  him  in  the  saddle  yet,  though  I 
am  seventy-eight." 

When  the  sound  of  her  daughter's  car  had  died 
away,  she  rang  the  bell. 

"If  Lady  Valleys  rings  up,  Clifton,  don't  take  the 


316  THE  PATRICIAN 

message,  but  call  me."  And  seeing  that  Clifton  did 
not  move  she  added  sharply:  "Well?" 

"There  is  no  bad  news  of  his  young  lordship's 
health,  I  hope?" 

"No." 

"Forgive  me,  my  lady,  but  I  have  had  it  on  my 
mind  for  some  time  to  ask  you  something." 

And  the  old  man  raised  his  hand  with  a  peculiar 
dignity,  seeming  to  say:  You  will  excuse  me  that  for 
the  moment  I  am  a  human  being  speaking  to  a 
human  being. 

"The  matter  of  his  attachment,"  he  went  on,  "is 
known  to  me ;  it  has  given  me  acute  anxiety,  knowing 
his  lordship  as  I  do,  and  having  heard  him  say  some- 
thing singular  when  he  was  here  in  July.  I  should 
be  grateful  if  you  would  assure  me  that  there  is  to  be 
no  hitch  in  his  career,  my  lady." 

The  expression  on  Lady  Casterley's  face  was 
strangely  compounded  of  surprise,  kindliness,  de- 
fence, and  impatience  as  with  a  child. 

"Not  if  I  can  prevent  it,  Clifton,"  she  said  shortly; 
"in  fact,  you  need  not  concern  yourself." 

Clifton  bowed. 

"Excuse  me  mentioning  it,  my  lady;"  a  quiver 
ran  over  his  face  between  its  long  white  whiskers, 
"but  his  young  lordship's  career  is  more  to  me  than 
my  own." 

When  he  had  left  her,  Lady  Casterley  sat  down  in 
a  little  low  chair — long  she  sat  there  by  the  empty 
hearth,  till  the  daylight  was  all  gone. 


CHAPTER  XX 

NOT  far  from  the  dark-haloed  indeterminate  limbo 
where  dwelt  that  bugbear  of  Charles  Courtier,  the 
great  Half -Truth  Authority,  he  himself  had  a  couple 
of  rooms  at  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  Their  chief  at- 
traction was  that  the  great  Half-Truth  Liberty  had 
recommended  them.  They  tied  him  to  nothing,  and 
were  ever  at  his  disposal  when  he  was  in  London; 
for  his  landlady,  though  not  bound  by  agreement  so 
to  do,  let  them  in  such  a  way,  that  she  could  turn 
anyone  else  out  at  a  week's  notice.  She  was  a  gentle 
soul,  married  to  a  socialistic  plumber  twenty  years 
her  senior.  The  worthy  man  had  given  her  two 
little  boys,  and  the  three  of  them  kept  her  in  such 
permanent  order  that  to  be  in  the  presence  of  Cour- 
tier was  the  greatest  pleasure  she  knew.  When  he 
disappeared  on  one  of  his  nomadic  missions,  explora- 
tions, or  adventures,  she  enclosed  the  whole  of  his 
belongings  in  two  tin  trunks  and  placed  them  in  a 
cupboard  which  smelled  a  little  of  mice.  When  he 
reappeared  the  trunks  were  reopened,  and  a  power- 
ful scent  of  dried  rose-leaves  would  escape.  For, 
recognizing  the  mortality  of  things  human,  she  pro- 
cured every  summer  from  her  sister,  the  wife  of  a 
market  gardener,  a  consignment  of  this  commodity, 
which  she  passionately  sewed  up  in  bags,  and  con- 
tinued to  deposit  year  by  year,  in  Courtier's  trunks. 

317 


318  THE  PATRICIAN 

This,  and  the  way  she  made  his  toast — very  crisp — 
and  aired  his  linen — very  dry,  were  practically  the 
only  things  she  could  do  for  a  man  naturally  in- 
clined to  independence,  and  accustomed  from  his 
manner  of  life  to  fend  for  himself. 

At  first  signs  of  his  departure  she  would  go  into 
some  closet  or  other,  away  from  the  plumber  and  the 
two  marks  of  his  affection,  and  cry  quietly;  but  never 
in  Courtier's  presence  did  she  dream  of  manifesting 
grief — as  soon  weep  in  the  presence  of  death  or 
birth,  or  any  other  fundamental  tragedy  or  joy.  In 
face  of  the  realities  of  life  she  had  known  from  her 
youth  up  the  value  of  the  simple  verb  'sto — stare — to 
stand  fast.' 

And  to  her  Courtier  was  a  reality,  the  chief  reality 
of  life,  the  focus  of  her  aspiration,  the  morning  and 
the  evening  star. 

The  request,  then — five  days  after  his  farewell  visit 
to  Mrs.  Noel — for  the  elephant-hide  trunk  which 
accompanied  his  rovings,  produced  her  habitual 
period  of  seclusion,  followed  by  her  habitual  ap- 
pearance in  his  sitting-room  bearing  a  note,  and 
some  bags  of  dried  rose-leaves  on  a  tray.  She  found 
him  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  packing. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Benton;  off  again!" 

Mrs.  Benton,  plaiting  her  hands,  for  she  had  not 
yet  lost  something  of  the  look  and  manner  of  a  little 
girl,  answered  in  her  flat,  but  serene  voice: 

"Yes,  sir;  and  I  hope  you're  not  going  anywhere 
very  dangerous  this  time.  I  always  think  you  go  to 
such  dangerous  places." 


THE  PATRICIAN  319 

"To  Persia,  Mrs.  Benton,  where  the  carpets  come 
from." 

"Oh!  yes,  sir.    Your  washing's  just  come  home." 

Her,  apparently  cast-down,  eyes  stored  up  a 
wealth  of  little  details;  the  way  his  hair  grew,  the 
set  of  his  back,  the  colour  of  his  braces.  But  sud- 
denly she  said  in  a  surprising  voice: 

"You  haven't  a  photograph  you  could  spare,  sir, 
to  leave  behind  ?  Mr.  Benton  was  only  saying  to  me 
yesterday,  we've  nothing  to  remember  him  by,  in 
case  he  shouldn't  come  back." 

"Here's  an  old  one." 

Mrs.  Benton  took  the  photograph. 

"Oh!"  she  said;  "you  can  see  who  it  is."  And 
holding  it  perhaps  too  tightly,  for  her  fingers  trem- 
bled, she  added: 

"A  note,  please,  sir;  and  the  messenger  boy  is 
waiting  for  an  answer." 

While  he  read  the  note  she  noticed  with  concern 
how  packing  had  brought  the  blood  into  his  head. .  .  . 

When,  in  response  to  that  note,  Courtier  entered 
the  well-known  confectioner's  called  Gustard's,  it 
was  still  not  quite  tea-time,  and  there  seemed  to  him 
at  first  no  one  in  the  room  save  three  middle-aged 
women  packing  sweets;  then  in  the  corner  he  saw 
Barbara.  The  blood  was  no  longer  in  his  head;  he 
was  pale,  walking  down  that  mahogany-coloured 
room  impregnated  with  the  scent  of  wedding-cake. 
Barbara,  too,  was  pale. 

So  close  to  her  that  he  could  count  her  every  eye- 
lash, and  inhale  the  scent  of  her  hair  and  clothes — 


320  THE  PATRICIAN 

to  listen  to  her  story  of  Miltoun,  so  hesitatingly,  so 
wistfully  told,  seemed  very  like  being  kept  waiting 
with  the  rope  already  round  his  neck,  to  hear  about 
another  person's  toothache.  He  felt  this  to  have 
been  unnecessary  on  the  part  of  Fate!  And  there 
came  to  him  perversely  the  memory  of  that  ride  over 
the  sun-warmed  heather,  when  he  had  paraphrased 
the  old  Sicilian  song:  'Here  will  I  sit  and  sing.'  He 
was  a  long  way  from  singing  now;  nor  was  there  love 
in  his  arms.  There  was  instead  a  cup  of  tea;  and 
in  his  nostrils  the  scent  of  cake,  with  now  and  then 
a  whiff  of  orange-flower  water. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  when  she  had  finished  telling  him: 
"' Liberty's  a  glorious  feast!'  You  want  me  to  go 
to  your  brother,  and  quote  Burns?  You  know,  of 
course,  that  he  regards  me  as  dangerous." 

"Yes;  but  he  respects  and  likes  you." 

"And  I  respect  and  like  him,"  answered  Courtier. 

One  of  the  middle-aged  females  passed,  carrying  a 
large  white  card-board  box;  and  the  creaking  of  her 
stays  broke  the  hush. 

"You  have  been  very  sweet  to  me,"  said  Barbara, 
suddenly. 

Courtier's  heart  stirred,  as  if  it  were  turning 
over  within  him;  and  gazing  into  his  teacup,  he 
answered: 

"All  men  are  decent  to  the  evening  star.  I  will 
go  at  once  and  find  your  brother.  When  shall  I 
bring  you  news?" 

"To-morrow  at  five  I'll  be  at  home." 

And  repeating,  "To-morrow  at  five,':  be  rose- 


THE  PATRICIAN  321 

Looking  back  from  the  door,  he  saw  her  face 
puzzled,  rather  reproachful,  and  went  out  gloomily. 
The  scent  of  cake,  and  orange-flower  water,  the 
creaking  of  the  female's  stays,  the  colour  of  ma- 
hogany, still  clung  to  his  nose  and  ears,  and  eyes; 
but  within  him  it  was  all  dull  baffled  rage.  Why 
had  he  not  made  the  most  of  this  unexpected  chance ; 
why  had  he  not  made  desperate  love  to  her?  A 
conscientious  ass!  And  yet — the  whole  thing  was 
absurd!  She  was  so  young!  God  knew  he  would 
be  glad  to  be  out  of  it.  If  he  stayed  he  was  afraid 
that  he  would  play  the  fool.  But  the  memory  of  her 
words:  "You  have  been  very  sweet  to  me!"  would 
not  leave  him;  nor  the  memory  of  her  face,  so  puz- 
zled, and  reproachful.  Yes,  if  he  stayed  he  would 
play  the  fool!  He  would  be  asking  her  to  marry  a 
man  double  her  age,  of  no  position  but  that  which 
he  had  carved  for  himself,  and  without  a  rap.  And 
he  would  be  asking  her  in  such  a  way  that  she  might 
possibly  have  some  little  difficulty  in  refusing.  He 
would  be  letting  himself  go.  And  she  was  only 
twenty — for  all  her  woman-of-the- world  air,  a  child! 
No!  He  would  be  useful  to  her,  if  possible,  this 
once,  and  then  clear  out! 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN  Miltoun  left  Valleys  House  he  walked  in 
the  direction  of  Westminster.  During  the  five  days 
that  he  had  been  back  in  London  he  had  not  yet 
entered  the  House  of  Commons.  After  the  seclusion 
of  his  illness,  he  still  felt  a  yearning,  almost  painful, 
towards  the  movement  and  stir  of  the  town.  Every- 
thing he  heard  and  saw  made  an  intensely  vivid  im- 
pression. The  lions  in  Trafalgar  Square,  the  great 
buildings  of  Whitehall,  filled  him  with  a  sort  of  ex- 
ultation. He  was  like  a  man,  who,  after  a  long  sea 
voyage,  first  catches  sight  of  land,  and  stands  strain- 
ing his  eyes,  hardly  breathing,  taking  in  one  by  one 
the  lost  features  of  that  face.  He  walked  on  to 
Westminster  Bridge,  and  going  to  an  embrasure  in 
the  very  centre,  looked  back  towards  the  towers. 

It  was  said  that  the  love  of  those  towers  passed  into 
the  blood.  It  was  said  that  he  who  had  sat  beneath 
them  could  never  again  be  quite  the  same.  Miltoun 
knew  that  it  was  true — desperately  true,  of  himself. 
In  person  he  had  sat  there  but  three  weeks,  but  in 
soul  he  seemed  to  have  been  sitting  there  hundreds 
of  years.  And  now  he  would  sit  there  no  more! 
An  almost  frantic  desire  to  free  himself  from  this 
coil  rose  up  within  him.  To  be  held  a  prisoner  by 
that  most  secret  of  all  his  instincts,  the  instinct  for 


THE  PATRICIAN  323 

authority!  To  be  unable  to  wield  authority  because 
to  wield  authority  was  to  insult  authority.  God !  It 
was  hard!  He  turned  his  back  on  the  towers,  and 
sought  distraction  in  the  faces  of  the  passers-by. 

Each  of  these,  he  knew,  had  his  struggle  to  keep 
self-respect!  Or  was  it  that  they  were  unconscious 
of  struggle  or  of  self-respect,  and  just  let  things  drift  ? 
They  looked  like  that,  most  of  them!  And  all  his 
inherent  contempt  for  the  average  or  common  welled 
up  as  he  watched  them.  Yes,  they  looked  like  that! 
Ironically,  the  sight  of  those  from  whom  he  had  de- 
sired the  comfort  of  compromise,  served  instead  to 
stimulate  that  part  of  him  which  refused  to  let  him 
compromise.  They  looked  soft,  soggy,  without 
pride  or  will,  as  though  they  knew  that  life  was  too 
much  for  them,  and  had  shamefully  accepted  the 
fact.  They  so  obviously  needed  to  be  told  what  they 
might  do,  and  which  way  they  should  go;  they  would 
accept  orders  as  they  accepted  their  work,  or  pleas- 
ures. And  the  thought  that  he  was  now  debarred 
from  the  right  to  give  them  orders,  rankled  in  him 
furiously.  They,  in  their  turn,  glanced  casually  at 
his  tall  figure  leaning  against  the  parapet,  not  know- 
ing how  their  fate  was  trembling  in  the  balance. 
His  thin,  sallow  face,  and  hungry  eyes  gave  one  or 
two  of  them  perhaps  a  feeling  of  interest  or  discom- 
fort ;  but  to  most  he  was  assuredly  no  more  than  any 
other  man  or  woman  in  the  hurly-burly.  That 
dark  figure  of  conscious  power  struggling  in  the 
fetters  of  its  own  belief  in  power,  was  a  piece  of 
sculpture  they  had  neither  time  nor  wish  to  under- 


324  THE  PATRICIAN 

stand,  having  no  taste  for  tragedy — for  witnessing 
the  human  spirit  driven  to  the  wall. 

It  was  five  o'clock  before  Miltoun  left  the  Bridge, 
and  passed,  like  an  exile,  before  the  gates  of  Church 
and .  State,  on  his  way  to  his  uncle's  Club.  He 
stopped  to  telegraph  to  Audrey  the  time  he  would  be 
coming  to-morrow  afternoon;  and  on  leaving  the 
Post-Office,  noticed  in  the  window  of  the  adjoining 
shop  some  reproductions  of  old  Italian  masterpieces, 
amongst  them  one  of  Botticelli's  'Birth  of  Venus.' 
He  had  never  seen  that  picture;  and,  remembering 
that  she  had  told  him  it  was  her  favourite,  he  stopped 
to  look  at  it.  Averagely  well  versed  in  such  matters, 
as  became  one  of  his  caste,  Miltoun  had  not  the  power 
of  letting  a  work  of  art  insidiously  steal  the  private 
self  from  his  soul,  and  replace  it  with  the  self  of  all 
the  world;  and  he  examined  this  far-famed  present- 
ment of  the  heathen  goddess  with  aloofness,  even 
irritation.  The  drawing  of  the  body  seemed  to  him 
crude,  the  whole  picture  a  little  flat  and  Early;  he 
did  not  like  the  figure  of  the  Flora.  The  golden 
serenity,  and  tenderness,  of  which  she  had  spoken, 
left  him  cold.  Then  he  found  himself  looking  at  the 
face,  and  slowly,  but  with  uncanny  certainty,  began 
to  feel  that  he  was  looking  at  the  face  of  Audrey  her- 
self. The  hair  was  golden  and  different,  the  eyes 
grey  and  different,  the  mouth  a  little  fuller;  yet — it 
was  her  face;  the  same  oval  shape,  the  same  far- 
apart,  arched  brows,  the  same  strangely  tender, 
elusive  spirit.  And,  as  though  offended,  he  turned 
and  walked  on.  In  the  window  of  that  little  shop 


THE  PATRICIAN  325 

was  the  effigy  of  her  for  whom  he  had  bartered  away 
his  life — the  incarnation  of  passive  and  entwining 
love,  that  gentle  creature,  who  had  given  herself  to 
him  so  utterly,  for  whom  love,  and  the  flowers,  and 
trees,  and  birds,  music,  the  sky,  and  the  quick-flowing 
streams,  were  all-sufficing;  and  who,  like  the  goddess 
in  the  picture,  seemed  wondering  at  her  own  exis- 
tence. He  had  a  sudden  glimpse  of  understanding, 
strange  indeed  in  one  who  had  so  little  power  of 
seeing  into  others'  hearts:  Ought  she  ever  to  have 
been  born  into  a  world  like  this?  But  the  flash  of 
insight  yielded  quickly  to  that  sickening  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  position,  which  never  left  him  now. 
Whatever  else  he  did,  he  must  get  rid  of  that  malaise! 
But  what  could  he  do  in  that  coming  life?  Write 
books  ?  What  sort  of  books  could  he  write  ?  Only 
such  as  expressed  his  views  of  citizenship,  his  polit- 
ical and  social  beliefs.  As  well  remain  sitting  and 
speaking  beneath  those  towers !  He  could  never  join 
the  happy  band  of  artists,  those  soft  and  indeter- 
minate spirits,  for  whom  barriers  had  no  meaning, 
content  to  understand,  interpret,  and  create.  What 
should  he  be  doing  in  that  galley  ?  The  thought  was 
inconceivable.  A  career  at  the  Bar — yes,  he  might 
take  that  up ;  but  to  what  end  ?  To  become  a  judge  1 
As  well  continue  to  sit  beneath  those  towers!  Too 
late  for  diplomacy.  Too  late  for  the  Army;  besides, 
he  had  not  the  faintest  taste  for  military  glory.  Bury 
himself  in  the  country  like  Uncle  Dennis,  and  admin- 
ister one  of  his  father's  estates  ?  It  would  be  death. 
Go  amongst  the  poor?  For  a  moment  he  thought 


326  THE  PATRICIAN 

he  haa  found  a  new  vocation.  But  in  what  capacity 
— to  order  their  lives,  when  he  himself  could  not  order 
his  own;  or,  as  a  mere  conduit  pipe  for  money,  when 
he  believed  that  charity  was  rotting  the  nation  to  its 
core  ?  At  the  head  of  every  avenue  stood  an  angel 
or  devil  with  drawn  sword.  And  then  there  came  to 
him  another  thought.  Since  he  was  being  cast  forth 
from  Church  and  State,  could  he  not  play  the  fallen 
spirit  like  a  man — be  Lucifer,  and  destroy!  And  in- 
stinctively he  at  once  saw  himself  returning  to  those 
towers,  and  beneath  them  crossing  the  floor;  joining 
the  revolutionaries,  the  Radicals,  the  freethinkers, 
scourging  his  present  Party,  the  party  of  authority 
and  institutions.  The  idea  struck  him  as  supremely 
comic,  and  he  laughed  out  loud  in  the  street.  .  .  . 

The  Club  which  Lord  Dennis  frequented  was  in 
St.  James's,  untouched  by  the  tides  of  the  waters  of 
fashion — steadily  swinging  to  its  moorings  in  a  quiet 
backwater,  and  Miltoun  found  his  uncle  in  the  library. 
He  was  reading  a  volume  of  Burton's  travels,  and 
drinking  tea. 

"Nobody  comes  here,"  he  said,  "so,  in  spite  of 
that  word  on  the  door,  we  shall  talk.  Waiter,  bring 
some  more  tea,  please." 

Impatiently,  but  with  a  sort  of  pity,  Miltoun 
watched  Lord  Dennis's  urbane  movements,  wherein 
old  age  was,  pathetically,  trying  to  make  each  little 
thing  seem  important,  if  only  to  the  doer.  Nothing 
his  great-uncle  could  say  would  outweigh  the  warn- 
ing of  his  picturesque  old  figure !  To  be  a  bystander ; 
to  see  it  all  go  past  you ;  to  let  your  sword  rust  in  its 


THE  PATRICIAN  327 

sheath,  as  this  poor  old  fellow  had  done!  The  no- 
tion of  explaining  what  he  had  come  about  was  par- 
ticularly hateful  to  Miltoun ;  but  since  he  had  given  his 
word,  he  nerved  himself  with  secret  anger,  and  began: 

"I  promised  my  mother  to  ask  you  a  question, 
Uncle  Dennis.  You  know  of  my  attachment,  I 
believe?" 

Lord  Dennis  nodded. 

"Well,  I  have  joined  my  life  to  this  lady's.  There 
will  be  no  scandal,  but  I  consider  it  my  duty  to  resign 
my  seat,  and  leave  public  life  alone.  Is  that  right 
or  wrong  according  to  your  view?" 

Lord  Dennis  looked  at  his  nephew  in  silence.  A 
faint  flush  coloured  his  brown  cheeks.  He  had  the 
appearance  of  one  travelling  in  mind  over  the  past. 

"Wrong,  I  think,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"Why,  if  I  may  ask?" 

"I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  this  lady,  and 
am  therefore  somewhat  in  the  dark;  but  it  appears 
to  me  that  your  decision  is  not  fair  to  her." 

"That  is  beyond  me,"  said  Miltoun. 

Lord  Dennis  answered  firmly: 

"You  have  asked  me  a  frank  question,  expecting 
a  frank  answer,  I  suppose?" 

Miltoun  nodded. 

"Then,  my  dear,  don't  blame  me  if  what  I  say  is 
unpalatable." 

"I  shall  not." 

"Good!  You  say  you  are  going  to  give  up  public 
life  for  the  sake  of  your  conscience.  I  should  have 
no  criticism  to  make  if  it  stopped  there." 


328  THE  PATRICIAN 

He  paused,  and  for  quite  a  minute  remained 
silent,  evidently  searching  for  words  to  express  some 
intricate  thread  of  thought. 

"But  it  won't,  Eustace;  the  public  man  in  you  is 
far  stronger  than  the  other.  You  want  leadership 
more  than  you  want  love.  Your  sacrifice  will  kill 
your  affection;  what  you  imagine  is  your  loss  and 
hurt,  will  prove  to  be  this  lady's  in  the  end." 

Miltoun  smiled. 

Lord  Dennis  continued  very  dryly  and  with  a 
touch  of  malice: 

"You  are  not  listening  to  me;  but  I  can  see  very 
well  that  the  process  has  begun  already  underneath. 
There's  a  curious  streak  of  the  Jesuit  in  you,  Eustace. 
What  you  don't  want  to  see,  you  won't  look  at." 

"You  advise  me,  then,  to  compromise?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  point  out  that  you  will  be 
compromising  if  you  try  to  keep  both  your  con- 
science and  your  love.  You  will  be  seeking  to  have 
it  both  ways." 

"That  is  interesting." 

"And  you  will  find  yourself  having  it  neither," 
said  Lord  Dennis  sharply. 

Miltoun  rose.  "In  other  words,  you,  like  the 
others,  recommend  me  to  desert  this  lady  who  loves 
me,  and  whom  I  love.  And  yet,  Uncle,  they  say 
that  in  your  own  case " 

But  Lord  Dennis  had  risen,  too,  having  lost  all  the 
appanage  and  manner  of  old  age. 

"Of  my  own  case,"  he  said  bluntly,  "we  won't 
talk.  I  don't  advise  you  to  desert  anyone;  you 


THE  PATRICIAN  329 

quite  mistake  me.  I  advise  you  to  know  yourself. 
And  I  tell  you  my  opinion  of  you — you  were  cut  out 
by  Nature  for  a  statesman,  not  a  lover!  There's 
something  dried-up  in  you,  Eustace;  I'm  not  sure 
there  isn't  something  dried-up  in  all  our  caste.  We've 
had  to  do  with  forms  and  ceremonies  too  long. 
We're  not  good  at  taking  the  lyrical  point  of  view." 

"Unfortunately,"  said  Miltoun,  "I  cannot,  to  fit 
in  with  a  theory  of  yours,  commit  a  baseness." 

Lord  Dennis  began  pacing  up  and  down.  He  was 
keeping  his  lips  closed  very  tight. 

"A  man  who  gives  advice,"  he  said  at  last,  "is 
always  something  of  a  fool.  For  all  that,  you  have 
mistaken  mine.  I  am  not  so  presumptuous  as  to 
attempt  to  enter  the  inner  chamber  of  your  spirit.  I 
have  merely  told  you  that,  in  my  opinion,  it  would 
be  more  honest  to  yourself,  and  fairer  to  this  lady, 
to  compound  with  your  conscience,  and  keep  both 
your  love  and  your  public  life,  than  to  pretend  that 
you  were  capable  of  sacrificing  what  I  know  is  the 
stronger  element  in  you  for  the  sake  of  the  weaker. 
You  remember  the  saying,  Democritus  I  think: 
'rjOos  avOpdnrw  Satpeov' — each  man's  nature  or  char- 
acter is  his  fate  or  God.  I  recommend  it  to  you." 

For  a  full  minute  Miltoun  stood  without  replying, 
then  said: 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  Uncle  Dennis. 
A  middle  policy  is  no  use  to  me.  Good-bye!"  And 
without  shaking  hands,  he  went  out. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  the  hall  someone  rose  from  a  sofa,  and  came 
owards  him.  It  was  Courtier. 

"Run  you  to  earth  at  last,"  he  said;  "I  wish 
rou'd  come  and  dine  with  me.  I'm  leaving  England 
o-morrow  night,  and  there  are  things  I  want  to  say." 

There  passed  through  Miltoun's  mind  the  rapid 
thought:  Does  he  know?  He  assented,  however, 
md  they  went  out  together. 

"It's  difficult  to  find  a  quiet  place,"  said  Courtier; 
"but  this  might  do." 

The  place  chosen  was  a  little  hostel,  frequented  by 
racing  men,  and  famed  for  the  excellence  of  its 
steaks.  And  as  they  sat  down  opposite  each  other  in 
the  almost  empty  room,  Miltoun  thought:  Yes,  he 
does  know!  Can  I  stand  any  more  of  this?  He 
waited  almost  savagely  for  the  attack  he  felt  was 
coming. 

"So  you  are  going  to  give  up  your  seat?"  said 
Courtier. 

Miltoun  looked  at  him  for  some  seconds,  before 
replying. 

"From  what  town-crier  did  you  hear  that?" 

But  there  was  that  in  Courtier's  face  which  checked 
his  anger;  its  friendliness  was  transparent. 

33° 


THE  PATRICIAN  331 

"I  am  about  her  only  friend,"  Courtier  proceeded 
earnestly ;  "  and  this  is  my  last  chance — to  say  nothing 
of  my  feeling  towards  you,  which,  believe  me,  is  very 
cordial." 

"Go  on,  then,"  Miltoun  muttered. 

"Forgive  me  for  putting  it  bluntly.  Have  you 
considered  what  her  position  was  before  she  met 
you?" 

Miltoun  felt  the  blood  rushing  to  his  face,  but  he 
sat  still,  clenching  his  nails  into  the  palms  of  his 
hands. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Courtier,  "but  that  attitude  of 
mind — you  used  to  have  it  yourself — which  decrees 
either  living  death,  or  spiritual  adultery  to  women, 
makes  my  blood  boil.  You  can't  deny  that  those 
were  the  alternatives,  and  I  say  you  had  the  right 
fundamentally  to  protest  against  them,  not  only  in 
words  but  deeds.  You  did  protest,  I  know;  but 
this  present  decision  of  yours  is  a  climb  down,  as 
much  as  to  say  that  your  protest  was  wrong." 

Miltoun  rose  from  his  seat.  "I  cannot  discuss 
this,"  he  said;  "I  cannot." 

"For  her  sake,  you  must.  If  you  give  up  your 
public  work,  you'll  spoil  her  life  a  second  time." 

Miltoun  again  sat  down.  At  the  word  'must'  a 
steely  feeling  had  come  to  his  aid ;  his  eyes  began  to 
resemble  the  old  Cardinal's.  "Your  nature  and 
mine,  Courtier,"  he  said,  "are  too  far  apart;  we  shall 
never  understand  each  other." 

"Never  mind  that,"  answered  Courtier.  "Ad- 
mitting those  two  alternatives  to  be  horrible,  which 


332  THE  PATRICIAN 

you  never  would  have  done  unless  the  facts  had  been 
brought  home  to  you  personally " 

"That,"  said  Miltoun  icily,  "I  deny  your  right  to 
say." 

"Anyway,  you  do  admit  them — if  you  believe  you 
had  not  the  right  to  rescue  her,  on  what  principle  do 
you  base  that  belief?" 

Miltoun  placed  his  elbow  on  the  table,  and  leaning 
his  chin  on  his  hand,  regarded  the  champion  of  lost 
causes  without  speaking.  There  was  such  a  tur- 
moil going  on  within  him  that  with  difficulty  he  could 
force  his  lips  to  obey  him. 

"By  what  right  do  you  ask  me  that?"  he  said  at 
last.  He  saw  Courtier's  face  grow  scarlet,  and  his 
fingers  twisting  furiously  at  those  flame-like  mous- 
taches; but  his  answer  was  as  steadily  ironical  as 
usual. 

"Well,  I  can  hardly  sit  still,  my  last  evening  in 
England,  without  lifting  a  finger,  while  you  immolate 
a  woman  to  whom  I  feel  like  a  brother.  I'll  tell  you 
arhat  your  principle  is:  Authority,  unjust  or  just, 
desirable  or  undesirable,  must  be  implicitly  obeyed. 
To  break  a  law,  no  matter  on  what  provocation,  or 
for  whose  sake,  is  to  break  the  commandment " 

"Don't  hesitate— say,  of  God." 

"Of  an  infallible  fixed  Power.  Is  that  a  true 
definition  of  your  principle?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miltoun,  between  his  teeth,  "I  think 


so." 


"Exceptions  prove  the  rule." 
"Hard  cases  make  bad  law." 


THE  PATRICIAN  333 

Courtier  smiled:  "I  knew  you  were  coming  out 
with  that.  I  deny  that  they  do  with  this  law,  which 
is  altogether  behind  the  times.  You  had  the  right 
to  rescue  this  woman." 

"No,  Courtier,  if  we  must  fight,  let  us  fight  on  the 
naked  facts.  I  have  not  rescued  anyone.  I  have 
merely  stolen  sooner  than  starve.  That  is  why  I 
cannot  go  on  pretending  to  be  a  pattern.  If  it  were 
known,  I  could  not  retain  my  seat  an  hour;  I  can't 
take  advantage  of  an  accidental  secrecy.  Could  you  ?  " 

Courtier  was  silent;  and  with  his  eyes  Miltoun 
pressed  on  him,  as  though  he  would  despatch  him 
with  that  glance. 

"I  could,"  said  Courtier  at  last.  "When  this  law, 
by  enforcing  spiritual  adultery  on  those  who  have 
come  to  hate  their  mates,  destroys  the  sanctity  of 
the  married  state — the  very  sanctity  it  professes  to 
uphold,  you  must  expect  to  have  it  broken  by  reason- 
ing men  and  women  without  their  feeling  shame,  or 
losing  self-respect." 

In  Miltoun  there  was  rising  that  vast  and  subtle 
passion  for  dialectic  combat,  which  was  of  his  very 
fibre.  He  had  almost  lost  the  feeling  that  this  was 
his  own  future  being  discussed.  He  saw  before  him 
in  this  sanguine  man,  whose  voice  and  eyes  had  such 
a  white-hot  sound  and  look,  the  incarnation  of  all 
that  he  temperamentally  opposed. 

"That,"  he  said,  "is  devil's  advocacy.  I  admit 
no  individual  as  judge  in  his  own  case." 

"Ah!  Now  we're  coming  to  it.  By  the  way, 
shall  we  get  out  of  this  heat?" 


334  THE  PATRICIAN 

They  were  no  sooner  in  the  cooler  street,  than  the 
voice  of  Courtier  began  again: 

"Distrust  of  human  nature,  fear — it's  the  whole 
basis  of  action  for  men  of  your  stamp.  You  deny 
the  right  of  the  individual  to  judge,  because  you've 
no  faith  in  the  essential  goodness  of  men;  at  heart 
you  believe  them  bad.  You  give  them  no  freedom, 
you  allow  them  no  consent,  because  you  believe  that 
their  decisions  would  move  downwards,  and  not  up- 
wards. Well,  it's  the  whole  difference  between  the 
aristocratic  and  the  democratic  view  of  life.  As  you 
once  told  me,  you  hate  and  fear  the  crowd." 

Miltoun  eyed  that  steady  sanguine  face  askance: 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  do  believe  that  men  are  raised 
in  spite  of  themselves." 

"You're  honest.    By  whom?" 

Again  Miltoun  felt  rising  within  him  a  sort  of  fury. 
Once  for  all  he  would  slay  this  red-haired  rebel;  he 
answered  with  almost  savage  irony: 

"Strangely  enough,  bv  that  Being  to  mention 
whom  you  object — working  through  the  medium  of 
the  best." 

"High-Priest!  Look  at  that  girl  slinking  along 
there,  with  her  eye  on  us;  suppose,  instead  of  with- 
drawing your  garment,  you  went  over  and  talked 
to  her,  got  her  to  tell  you  what  she  really  felt 
and  thought,  you'd  find  things  that  would  astonish 
you.  At  bottom,  mankind  is  splendid.  And  they're 
raised,  sir,  by  the  aspiration  that's  in  all  of  them. 
Haven't  you  ever  noticed  that  public  sentiment  is 
always  in  advance  of  the  Law?" 


THE  PATRICIAN  335 

"And  you,"  said  Miltoun,  "are  the  man  who  is 
never  on  the  side  of  the  majority?" 

The  champion  of  lost  causes  uttered  a  short 
laugh. 

"Not  so  logical  as  all  that,"  he  answered;  "the 
wind  still  blows;  and  Life's  not  a  set  of  rules  hung 
up  in  an  office.  Let's  see,  where  are  we?"  They 
had  been  brought  to  a  stand-still  by  a  group  on  the 
pavement  in  front  of  the  Queen's  Hall:  "Shall  we 
go  in,  and  hear  some  music,  and  cool  our  tongues?" 

Miltoun  nodded,  and  they  went  in. 

The  great  lighted  hall,  filled  with  the  faint  blueish 
vapour  from  hundreds  of  little  rolls  of  tobacco  leaf, 
was  crowded  from  floor  to  ceiling. 

Taking  his  stand  among  the  straw-hatted  throng, 
Miltoun  heard  that  steady  ironical  voice  behind  him : 

"Profanum  vulgus!  Come  to  listen  to  the  finest 
piece  of  music  ever  written !  Folk  whom  you  wouldn't 
trust  a  yard  to  know  what  was  good  for  them!  De- 
plorable sight,  isn't  it?" 

He  made  no  answer.  The  first  slow  notes  of  the 
seventh  Symphony  of  Beethoven  had  begun  to  steal 
forth  across  the  bank  of  flowers;  and,  save  for  the 
steady  rising  of  that  blueish  vapour,  as  it  were  incense 
burnt  to  the  god  of  melody,  the  crowd  had  become 
deathly  still,  as  though  one  mind,  one  spirit,  pos- 
sessed each  pale  face  inclined  towards  that  music 
rising  and  falling  like  the  sighing  of  the  winds,  that 
welcome  from  death  the  freed  spirits  of  the  beautiful. 

When  the  last  notes  had  died  away,  he  turned  and 
walked  out. 


336  THE  PATRICIAN 

"Well,"  said  the  voice  behind  him,  "hasn't  that 
shown  you  how  things  swell  and  grow;  how  splendid 
the  world  is?" 

Miltoun  smiled. 

"It  has  shown  me  how  beautiful  the  world  can  be 
made  by  a  great  man." 

And  suddenly,  as  if  the  music  had  loosened  some 
band  within  him,  he  began  to  pour  forth  words: 

"Look  at  the  crowd  in  this  street,  Courtier,  which 
of  all  crowds  in  the  whole  world  can  best  afford  to 
be  left  to  itself;  secure  from  pestilence,  earthquake, 
cyclone,  drought,  from  extremes  of  heat  and  cold, 
in  the  heart  of  the  greatest  and  safest  city  in  the 
world;  and  yet — see  the  figure  of  that  policeman! 
Running  through  all  the  good  behaviour  of  this 
crowd,  however  safe  and  free  it  looks,  there  is,  there 
always  must  be,  a  central  force  holding  it  together. 
Where  does  that  central  force  come  from?  From 
the  crowd  itself,  you  say.  I  answer:  No.  Look 
back  at  the  origin  of  human  States.  From  the  be- 
ginnings of  things,  the  best  man  has  been  the  un- 
conscious medium  of  authority,  of  the  controlling 
principle,  of  the  divine  force;  he  felt  that  power 
within  him — physical,  at  first — he  used  it  to  take  the 
lead,  he  has  held  the  lead  ever  since,  he  must  always 
hold  it.  All  your  processes  of  election,  your  so-called 
democratic  apparatus,  are  only  a  blind  to  the  in- 
quiring, a  sop  to  the  hungry,  a  salve  to  the  pride  of 
the  rebellious.  They  are  merely  surface  machinery; 
they  cannot  prevent  the  best  man  from  coming  to  the 
top;  for  the  best  man  stands  nearest  to  the  Deity, 


THE  PATRICIAN  337 

and  is  the  first  to  receive  the  waves  that  come  from 
Him.  I'm  not  speaking  of  heredity.  The  best  man 
is  not  necessarily  born  in  my  class,  and  I,  at  all 
events,  do  not  believe  he  is  any  more  frequent  there 
than  in  other  classes." 

He  stopped  as  suddenly  as  he  had  begun. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  answered  Courtier, 
"that  I  take  you  for  an  average  specimen.  You're 
at  one  end,  and  I  at  the  other,  and  we  probably  both 
miss  the  golden  mark.  But  the  world  is  not  ruled 
by  power,  and  the  fear  which  power  produces,  as  you 
think,  it's  ruled  by  love.  Society  is  held  together  by 
the  natural  decency  in  man,  by  fellow-feeling.  The 
democratic  principle,  which  you  despise,  at  root 
means  nothing  at  all  but  that.  Man  left  to  himself 
is  on  the  upward  lay.  If  it  weren't  so,  do  you  imagine 
for  a  moment  your  'boys  in  blue'  could  keep  order? 
A  man  knows  unconsciously  what  he  can  and  what 
he  can't  do,  without  losing  his  self-respect.  He  sucks 
that  knowledge  in  with  every  breath.  Laws  and 
authority  are  not  the  be-all  and  end-all,  they  are 
conveniences,  machinery,  conduit  pipes,  main  roads. 
They're  not  of  the  structure  of  the  building — they're 
only  scaffolding." 

Miltoun  lunged  out  with  the  retort: 

"Without  which  no  building  could  be  built." 

Courtier  parried. 

"That's  rather  different,  my  friend,  from  identify- 
ing them  with  the  building.  They  are  things  to  be 
taken  down  as  fast  as  ever  they  can  be  cleared  away, 
to  make  room  for  an  edifice  that  begins  on  earth,  not 


338  THE  PATRICIAN 

in  the  sky.  All  the  scaffolding  of  law  is  merely  there 
to  save  time,  to  prevent  the  temple,  as  it  mounts, 
from  losing  its  way,  and  straying  out  of  form." 

"No,"  said  Miltoun,  "no!  The  scaffolding,  as 
you  call  it,  is  the  material  projection  of  the  architect's 
conception,  without  which  the  temple  does  not  and 
cannot  rise;  and  the  architect  is  God,  working 
through  the  minds  and  spirits  most  akin  to  Himself." 

"We  are  now  at  the  bed-rock,"  cried  Courtier, 
"your  God  is  outside  this  world.  Mine  within  it." 

"And  never  the  twain  shall  meet!" 

In  the  silence  that  followed  Miltoun  saw  that  they 
were  in  Leicester  Square,  all  quiet  as  yet  before  the 
theatres  had  disgorged;  quiet  yet  waiting,  with  the 
lights,  like  yellow  stars  low-driven  from  the  dark 
heavens,  clinging  to  the  white  shapes  of  music-halls 
and  caf£s,  and  a  sort  of  flying  glamour  blanching  the 
still  foliage  of  the  plane  trees. 

"A  'whitely  wanton' — this  Square!"  said  Courtier: 
"Alive  as  a  face;  no  end  to  its  queer  beauty!  And, 
by  Jove,  if  you  went  deep  enough,  you'd  find  good- 
ness even  here." 

"And  you'd  ignore  the  vice,"  Miltoun  answered. 

He  felt  weary  all  of  a  sudden,  anxious  to  get  to  his 
rooms,  unwilling  to  continue  this  battle  of  words, 
that  brought  him  no  nearer  to  relief.  It  was  with 
strange  lassitude  that  he  heard  the  voice  still  speaking: 

"We  must  make  a  night  of  it,  since  to-morrow  we 
die.  .  .  .  You  would  curb  licence  from  without — I 
from  within.  When  I  get  up  and  when  I  go  to  bed, 
when  I  draw  a  breath,  see  a  face,  or  a  flower,  or  a 


THE  PATRICIAN  339 

tree — if  I  didn't  feel  that  I  was  looking  on  the  Deity, 
I  believe  I  should  quit  this  palace  of  varieties,  from 
sheer  boredom.  You,  I  understand,  can't  look  on 
your  God,  unless  you  withdraw  into  some  high  place. 
Isn't  it  a  bit  lonely  there?" 

"There  are  worse  things  than  loneliness."  And 
they  walked  on  in  silence;  till  suddenly  Miltoun 
broke  out: 

"You  talk  of  tyranny!  What  tyranny  could  equal 
this  tyranny  of  your  freedom  ?  What  tyranny  in  the 
world  like  that  of  this  'free'  vulgar,  narrow  street, 
with  its  hundred  journals  teeming  like  ants'  nests, 
to  produce — what?  In  the  entrails  of  that  creature 
of  your  freedom,  Courtier,  there  is  room  neither  for 
exaltation,  discipline,  nor  sacrifice;  there  is  room 
only  for  commerce,  and  licence." 

There  was  no  answer  for  a  moment;  and  from 
those  tall  houses,  whose  lighted  windows  he  had 
apostrophized,  Miltoun  turned  away  towards  the 
river.  "No,"  said  the  voice  beside  him,  "for  all  its 
faults,  the  wind  blows  in  that  street,  and  there's  a 
chance  for  everything.  By  God,  I  would  rather  see 
a  few  stars  struggle  out  in  a  black  sky  than  any  of 
your  perfect  artificial  lighting." 

And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  Miltoun  that  he  could 
never  free  himself  from  the  echoes  of  that  voice — it 
was  not  worth  while  to  try.  "We  are  repeating 
ourselves,"  he  said,  dryly. 

The  river's  black  water  was  making  stilly,  slow 
recessional  under  a  half-moon.  Beneath  the  cloak 
of  night  the  chaos  on  the  far  bank,  the  forms  of 


340  THE  PATRICIAN 

cranes,  high  buildings,  jetties,  the  bodies  of  the 
sleeping  barges,  a  million  queer  dark  shapes,  were 
invested  with  emotion.  All  was  religious  out  there, 
all  beautiful,  all  strange.  And  over  this  great  quiet 
friend  of  man,  lamps — those  humble  flowers  of  night, 
were  throwing  down  the  faint  continual  glamour  of 
fallen  petals;  and  a  sweet-scented  wind  stole  along 
from  the  West,  very  slow  as  yet,  bringing  in  advance 
the  tremor  and  perfume  of  the  innumerable  trees  and 
fields  which  the  river  had  loved  as  she  came  by. 

A  murmur  that  was  no  true  sound,  but  like  the 
whisper  of  a  heart  to  a  heart,  accompanied  this 
voyage  of  the  dark  water. 

Then  a  small  blunt  skiff  manned  by  two  rowers 
came  by  under  the  wall,  with  the  thudding  and  the 
creak  of  oars. 

"So  'To-morrow  we  die'?"  said  Miltoun:  "You 
mean,  I  suppose,  that  ' public  life'  is  the  breath  of 
my  nostrils,  and  I  must  die,  because  I  give  it  up?" 

Courtier  nodded. 

"Am  I  right  in  thinking  that  it  was  my  young 
sister  who  sent  you  on  this  crusade?" 

Courtier  did  not  answer. 

"And  so,"  Miltoun  went  on,  looking  him  through 
and  through ;  "  to-morrow  is  to  be  your  last  day,  too  ? 
Well,  you're  right  to  go.  She  is  not  an  ugly  duckling, 
who  can  live  out  of  the  social  pond;  she'll  always 
want  her  native  element.  And  now,  we'll  say  good- 
bye! Whatever  happens  to  us  both,  I  shall  remem- 
ber this  evening."  Smiling,  he  put  out  his  hand: 
"Moriturus  te  saluto" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

COURTIER  sat  in  Hyde  Park  waiting  for  five  o'clock. 

The  day  had  recovered  somewhat  from  a  grey 
morning,  as  though  the  glow  of  that  long  hot  summer 
were  too  burnt-in  on  the  air  to  yield  to  the  first  as- 
sault. The  sun,  piercing  the  crisped  clouds,  those 
breast  feathers  of  heavenly  doves,  darted  its  beams 
at  the  mellowed  leaves,  and  showered  to  the  ground 
their  delicate  shadow  stains.  The  first,  too  early, 
scent  from  leaves  about  to  fall,  penetrated  to  the 
heart.  And  sorrowful  sweet  birds  were  tuning  their 
little  autumn  pipes,  blowing  into  them  fragments  of 
Spring  odes  to  Liberty. 

Courtier  thought  of  Miltoun  and  his  mistress.  By 
what  a  strange  fate  had  those  two  been  thrown  to- 
gether; to  what  end  was  their  love  coming?  The 
seeds  of  grief  were  already  sown,  what  flowers  of 
darkness,  or  of  tumult  would  come  up  ?  He  saw  her 
again  as  a  little,  grave,  considering  child,  with  her 
soft  eyes,  set  wide  apart  under  the  dark  arched  brows, 
and  the  little  tuck  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth  that 
used  to  come  when  he  teased  her.  And  to  that  gentle 
creature  who  would  sooner  die  than  force  anyone  to 
anything,  had  been  given  this  queer  lover;  this  aristo- 
crat by  birth  and  nature,  with  the  dried  fervent  soul, 

341 


342  THE  PATRICIAN 

whose  every  fibre  had  been  bred  and  trained  in  and 
to  the  service  of  Authority ;  this  rejecter  of  the  Unity 
of  Life;  this  worshipper  of  an  old  God!  A  God  that 
stood,  whip  in  hand,  driving  men  to  obedience.  A 
God  that  even  now  Courtier  could  conjure  up  staring 
at  him  from  the  walls  of  his  nursery.  The  God 
his  own  father  had  believed  in.  A  God  of  the  Old 
Testament,  knowing  neither  sympathy  nor  under- 
standing. Strange  that  He  should  be  alive  still; 
that  there  should  still  be  thousands  who  worshipped 
Him.  Yet,  not  so  very  strange,  if,  as  they  said,  man 
made  God  in  his  own  image!  Here  indeed  was  a 
curious  mating  of  what  the  philosophers  would  call 
the  will  to  Love,  and  the  will  to  Power! 

A  soldier  and  his  girl  came  and  sat  down  on  a 
bench  close  by.  They  looked  askance  at  this  trim 
and  upright  figure  with  the  fighting  face;  then,  some 
subtle  thing  informing  them  that  he  was  not  of  the 
disturbing  breed  called  officer,  they  ceased  to  regard 
him,  abandoning  themselves  to  dumb  and  inexpres- 
sive felicity.  Arm  in  arm,  touching  each  other,  they 
seemed  to  Courtier  very  jolly,  having  that  look  of  liv- 
ing entirely  in  the  moment,  which  always  especially 
appealed  to  one  whose  blood  ran  too  fast  to  allow 
him  to  speculate  much  upon  the  future  or  brood 
much  over  the  past. 

A  leaf  from  the  bough  above  him,  loosened  by  the 
sun's  kisses,  dropped,  and  fell  yellow  at  his  feet. 
The  leaves  were  turning  very  soon! 

It  was  characteristic  of  this  man,  who  could  be  so 
hot  over  the  lost  causes  of  others,  that,  sitting  there 


THE  PATRICIAN  343 

within  half  an  hour  of  the  final  loss  of  his  own  cause, 
he  could  be  so  calm,  so  almost  apathetic.  This 
apathy  was  partly  due  to  the  hopelessness,  which 
Nature  had  long  perceived,  of  trying  to  make  him 
feel  oppressed,  but  also  to  the  habits  of  a  man  in- 
curably accustomed  to  carrying  his  fortunes  in  his 
hand,  and  that  hand  open.  It  did  not  seem  real  to 
him  that  he  was  actually  going  to  suffer  a  defeat,  to 
have  to  confess  that  he  had  hankered  after  this  girl 
all  these  past  weeks,  and  that  to-morrow  all  would 
be  wasted,  and  she  as  dead  to  him  as  if  he  had  never 
seen  her.  No,  it  was  not  exactly  resignation,  it  was 
rather  sheer  lack  of  commercial  instinct.  If  only 
this  had  been  the  lost  cause  of  another  person.  How 
gallantly  he  would  have  rushed  to  the  assault,  and 
taken  her  by  storm!  If  only  he  himself  could  have 
been  that  other  person,  how  easily,  how  passionately 
could  he  not  have  pleaded,  letting  forth  from  him  all 
those  words  which  had  knocked  at  his  teeth  ever 
since  he  knew  her,  and  which  would  have  seemed  so 
ridiculous  and  so  unworthy,  spoken  on  his  own  be- 
half. Yes,  for  that  other  person  he  could  have  cut 
her  out  from  under  the  guns  of  the  enemy;  he  could 
have  taken  her,  that  fairest  prize. 

And  in  queer,  cheery-looking  apathy — not  far  re- 
moved perhaps  from  despair — he  sat,  watching  the 
leaves  turn  over  and  fall,  and  now  and  then  cutting 
with  his  stick  at  the  air,  where  autumn  was  already 
riding.  And,  if  in  imagination  he  saw  himself  carry- 
ing her  away  into  the  wilderness,  and  with  his  devo- 
tion making  her  happiness  to  grow,  it  was  so  far  a 


344  THE  PATRICIAN 

flight,  that  a  smile  crept  about  his  lips,  and  once  or 
twice  he  snapped  his  jaws. 

The  soldier  and  his  girl  rose,  passing  in  front  of 
him  down  the  Row.  He  watched  their  scarlet  and 
blue  figures,  moving  slowly  towards  the  sun,  and 
another  couple  close  to  the  rails,  crossing  those  re- 
ceding forms.  Very  straight  and  tall,  there  was 
something  exhilarating  in  the  way  this  new  couple 
swung  along,  holding  their  heads  up,  turning  towards 
each  other,  to  exchange  words  or  smiles.  Even  at 
that  distance  they  could  be  seen  to  be  of  high  fashion ; 
in  their  gait  was  the  almost  insolent  poise  of  those 
who  are  above  doubts  and  cares,  certain  of  the  world 
and  of  themselves.  The  girl's  dress  was  tawny 
brown,  her  hair  and  hat  too  of  the  same  hue,  and  the 
pursuing  sunlight  endowed  her  with  a  hazy  splen- 
dour. Then,  Courtier  saw  who  they  were — that 
couple! 

Except  for  an  unconscious  grinding  of  his  teeth, 
he  made  no  sound  or  movement,  so  that  they  went 
by  without  seeing  him.  Her  voice,  though  not  the 
words,  came  to  him  distinctly.  He  saw  her  hand 
slip  up  under  Harbinger's  arm  and  swiftly  down 
again.  A  smile,  of  whose  existence  he  was  unaware, 
settled  on  his  lips.  He  got  up,  shook  himself,  as  a 
dog  shakes  off  a  beating,  and  walked  away,  with  his 
mouth  set  very  firm. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

LEFT  alone  among  the  little  mahogany  tables  of 
Custard's,  where  the  scent  of  cake  and  of  orange- 
flower  water  made  happy  all  the  air,  Barbara  had 
sat  for  some  minutes,  her  eyes  cast  down — as  a  child 
from  whom  a  toy  has  been  taken  contemplates  the 
ground,  not  knowing  precisely  what  she  is  feeling. 
Then,  paying  one  of  the  middle-aged  females,  she 
went  out  into  the  Square.  There  a  German  band 
was  playing  Delibes'  Coppelia;  and  the  murdered 
tune  came  haunting  her,  a  very  ghost  of  incongruity. 

She  went  straight  back  to  Valleys  House.  In  the 
room  where  three  hours  ago  she  had  been  left  alone 
after  lunch  with  Harbinger,  her  sister  was  seated 
in  the  window,  looking  decidedly  upset.  In  fact, 
Agatha  had  just  spent  an  awkward  hour.  Chancing, 
with  little  Ann,  into  that  confectioner's  where  she 
could  best  obtain  a  particularly  gummy  sweet  which 
she  believed  wholesome  for  her  children,  she  had 
been  engaged  in  purchasing  a  pound,  when  looking 
down,  she  perceived  Ann  standing  stock-still,  with 
her  sudden  little  nose  pointed  down  the  shop,  and 
her  mouth  opening;  glancing  in  the  direction  of 
those  frank,  enquiring  eyes,  Agatha  saw  to  her 
amazement  her  sister  and  a  man  whom  she  recognized 

.345 


346  THE  PATRICIAN 

as  Courtier.  With  a  readiness  which  did  her  com- 
plete credit,  she  placed  a  sweet  in  Ann's  mouth,  and 
saying  to  the  middle-aged  female:  "Then  you'll  send 
those,  please.  Come,  Ann!"  went  out.  Shocks 
never  coming  singly,  she  had  no  sooner  reached  home, 
than  from  her  father  she  learned  of  the  development 
of  Miltoun's  love  affair.  When  Barbara  returned, 
she  was  sitting,  unfeignedly  disturbed  and  grieved; 
unable  to  decide  whether  or  no  she  ought  to  divulge 
what  she  herself  had  seen,  but  withal  buoyed-up  by 
that  peculiar  indignation  of  the  essentially  domestic 
woman,  whose  ideals  have  been  outraged. 

Judging  at  once  from  the  expression  of  her  face 
that  she  must  have  heard  the  news  of  Miltoun,  Bar- 
bara said: 

"Well,  my  dear  Angel,  any  lecture  for  me?" 

Agatha  answered  coldly: 

"I  think  you  were  quite  mad  to  take  Mrs.  Noel  to 
him." 

"The  whole  duty  of  woman,"  murmured  Barbara, 
"includes  a  little  madness." 

Agatha  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

"I  can't  make  you  out,"  she  said  at  last;  "you're 
not  a  fool!" 

"Only  a  knave." 

"You  may  think  it  right  to  joke  over  the  ruin  of 
Miltoun's  life,"  murmured  Agatha;  "I  don't." 

Barbara's  eyes  grew  bright;  and  in  a  hard  voice 
she  answered: 

"The  world  is  not  your  nursery,  Angel!" 

Agatha  closed  her  lips  very  tightly,  as  who  should 


THE  PATRICIAN  347 

imply:  "Then  it  ought  to  be!"  But  she  only 
answered: 

"I  don't  think  you  know  that  I  saw  you  just  now 
in  Custard's." 

Barbara  eyed  her  for  a  moment  in  amazement, 
and  began  to  laugh. 

"I  see,"  she  said;  "monstrous  depravity — poor 
old  Gustard'sl"  And  still  laughing  that  dangerous 
laugh,  she  turned  on  her  heel  and  went  out 

At  dinner  and  afterwards  that  evening  she  was 
very  silent,  having  on  her  face  the  same  look  that  she 
wore  out  hunting,  especially  when  in  difficulties  of 
any  kind,  or  if  advised  to  'take  a  pull.'  When  she 
got  away  to  her  own  room  she  had  a  longing  to  re- 
lieve herself  by  some  kind  of  action  that  would  hurt 
someone,  if  only  herself.  To  go  to  bed  and  toss 
about  in  a  fever — for  she  knew  herself  in  these 
thwarted  moods — was  of  no  use!  For  a  moment  she 
thought  of  going  out.  That  would  be  fun,  and  hurt 
them,  too ;  but  it  was  difficult.  She  did  not  want  to 
be  seen,  and  have  the  humiliation  of  an  open  row. 
Then  there  came  into  her  head  the  memory  of  the 
roof  of  the  tower,  where  she  had  once  been  as  a  little 
girl.  She  would  be  in  the  air  there,  she  would  be 
able  to  breathe,  to  get  rid  of  this  feverishness.  With 
the  unhappy  pleasure  of  a  spoiled  child  taking  its 
revenge,  she  took  care  to  leave  her  bedroom  door 
open,  so  that  her  maid  would  wonder  where  she  was, 
and  perhaps  be  anxious,  and  make  them  anxious. 
Slipping  through  the  moonlit  picture  gallery  on  to 
the  landing,  outside  her  father's  sanctum,  whence 


348  THE  PATRICIAN 

rose  the  stone  staircase  leading  to  the  roof,  she  began 
to  mount.  She  was  breathless  when,  after  that  un- 
ending flight  of  stairs  she  emerged  on  to  the  roof  at 
the  extreme  northern  end  of  the  big  house,  where, 
below  her,  was  a  sheer  drop  of  a  hundred  feet.  At 
first  she  stood,  a  little  giddy,  grasping  the  rail  that 
ran  round  that  garden  of  lead,  still  absorbed  in  her 
brooding,  rebellious  thoughts.  Gradually  she  lost 
consciousness  of  everything  save  the  scene  before  her. 
High  above  all  neighbouring  houses,  she  was  almost 
appalled  by  the  majesty  of  what  she  saw.  This  night- 
clothed  city,  so  remote  and  dark,  so  white-gleaming 
and  alive,  on  whose  purple  hills  and  valleys  grew  such 
myriad  golden  flowers  of  light,  from  whose  heart 
came  this  deep  incessant  murmur — could  it  possibly 
be  the  same  city  through  which  she  had  been  walking 
that  very  day!  From  its  sleeping  body  the  supreme 
wistful  spirit  had  emerged  in  dark  loveliness,  and 
was  low-flying  down  there,  tempting  her.  Barbara 
turned  round,  to  take  in  all  that  amazing  prospect, 
from  the  black  glades  of  Hyde  Park,  in  front,  to  the 
powdery  white  ghost  of  a  church  tower,  away  to  the 
East.  How  marvellous  was  this  city  of  night !  And 
as,  in  presence  of  that  wide  darkness  of  the  sea  be- 
fore dawn,  her  spirit  had  felt  little  and  timid  within 
her — so  it  felt  now,  in  face  of  this  great,  brooding, 
beautiful  creature,  whom  man  had  made.  She 
singled  out  the  shapes  of  the  Piccadilly  hotels,  and 
beyond  them  the  palaces  and  towers  of  Westminster 
and  Whitehall ;  and  everywhere  the  inextricable  love- 
liness of  dim  blue  forms  and  sinuous  pallid  lines  of 


THE  PATRICIAN  349 

light,  under  an  indigo-dark  sky.  Near  at  hand, 
she  could  see  plainly  the  still-lighted  windows,  the 
motorcars  gliding  by  far  down,  even  the  tiny 
shapes  of  people  walking;  and  the  thought  that 
each  of  them  meant  someone  like  herself,  seemed 
strange. 

Drinking  of  this  wonder-cup,  she  began  to  experi- 
ence a  queer  intoxication,  and  lost  the  sense  of  being 
little;  rather  she  had  the  feeling  of  power,  as  in  her 
dream  at  Monkland.  She  too,  as  well  as  this  great 
thing  below  her,  seemed  to  have  shed  her  body,  to 
be  emancipated  from  every  barrier — floating  delici- 
ously  identified  with  air.  She  seemed  to  be  one  with 
the  enfranchised  spirit  of  the  city,  drowned  in  per- 
ception of  its  beauty.  Then  all  that  feeling  went, 
and  left  her  frowning,  shivering,  though  the  wind 
from  the  West  was  warm.  Her  whole  adventure  of 
coming  up  here  seemed  bizarre,  ridiculous.  Very 
stealthily  she  crept  down,  and  had  reached  once  more 
the  door  into  the  picture  gallery,  when  she  heard  her 
mother's  voice  say  in  amazement:  "That  you, 
Babs?"  And  turning,  saw  her  coming  from  the 
doorway  of  the  sanctum. 

Of  a  sudden  very  cool,  with  all  her  faculties  about 
her,  Barbara  smiled,  and  stood  looking  at  Lady 
Valleys,  who  said  with  hesitation: 

"Come  in  here,  dear,  a  minute,  will  you?" 

In  that  room  resorted  to  for  comfort,  Lord  Valleys 
was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  hearth,  and  an  ex- 
pression on  his  face  that  wavered  between  vexation 
and  decision.  The  doubt  in  Agatha's  mind  whether 


350  THE  PATRICIAN 

she  should  tell  or  no,  had  been  terribly  resolved  by 
little  Ann,  who  in  a  pause  of  conversation  had  an- 
nounced: "We  saw  Auntie  Babs  and  Mr.  Courtier 
in  Custard's,  but  we  didn't  speak  to  them." 

Upset  by  the  events  of  the  afternoon,  Lady  Valleys 
had  not  shown  her  usual  savoir  faire.  She  had  told 
her  husband.  A  meeting  of  this  sort  in  a  shop  cele- 
brated for  little  save  its  wedding  cakes  was  in  a  sense 
of  no  importance;  but,  being  disturbed  already  by 
the  news  of  Miltoun,  it  seemed  to  them  both  nothing 
less  than  sinister,  as  though  the  heavens  were  in 
league  for  the  demolition  of  their  house.  To  Lord 
Valleys  it  was  peculiarly  mortifying,  because  of  his 
real  admiration  for  his  daughter,  and  because  he  had 
paid  so  little  attention  to  his  wife's  warning  of  some 
weeks  back.  In  consultation,  however,  they  had 
only  succeeded  in  deciding  that  Lady  Valleys  should 
talk  with  her.  Though  without  much  spiritual  in- 
sight, they  had,  each  of  them,  a  certain  cool  judg- 
ment ;  and  were  fully  alive  to  the  danger  of  thwart- 
ing Barbara.  This  had  not  prevented  Lord  Valleys 
from  expressing  himself  strongly  on  the  '  confounded 
unscrupulousness  of  that  fellow,'  and  secretly  form- 
ing his  own  plan  for  dealing  with  this  matter.  Lady 
Valleys,  more  deeply  conversant  with  her  daughter's 
nature,  and  by  reason  of  femininity  more  lenient 
towards  the  other  sex,  had  not  tried  to  excuse  Cour- 
tier, but  had  thought  privately:  'Babs  is  rather  a 
flirt.'  For  she  could  not  altogether  help  remember- 
ing herself  at  the  same  age. 

Summoned  thus  unexpectedly,  Barbara,  her  lips 


THE  PATRICIAN  351 

very  firmly  pressed  together,  took  her  stand,  coolly 
enough,  by  her  father's  writing-table. 

Seeing  her  suddenly  appear,  Lord  Valleys  instinc- 
tively relaxed  his  frown;  his  experience  of  men  and 
things,  his  thousands  of  diplomatic  hours,  served  to 
give  him  an  air  of  coolness  and  detachment  which  he 
was  very  far  from  feeling.  In  truth  he  would  rather 
have  faced  a  hostile  mob  than  his  favourite  daughter 
in  such  circumstances.  His  tanned  face  with  its 
crisp  grey  moustache,  his  whole  head  indeed,  took 
on,  unconsciously,  a  more  than  ordinarily  soldier- 
like appearance.  His  eyelids  drooped  a  little,  his 
brows  rose  slightly. 

She  was  wearing  a  blue  wrap  over  her  evening 
frock,  and  he  seized  instinctively  on  that  indifferent 
trifle  to  begin  this  talk. 

"Ah!  Babs,  have  you  been  out?" 

Alive  to  her  very  finger-nails,  with  every  nerve 
tingling,  but  showing  no  sign,  Barbara  answered: 

"No;  on  the  roof  of  the  tower." 

It  gave  her  a  real  malicious  pleasure  to  feel  the 
perplexity  beneath  her  father's  dignified  exterior. 
And  detecting  that  covert  mockery,  Lord  Valleys 
said  dryly: 

"Star-gazing?" 

Then,  with  that  sudden  resolution  peculiar  to  him, 
as  though  he  were  bored  with  having  to  delay  and 
temporize,  he  added: 

"Do  you  know,  I  doubt  whether  it's  wise  to  make 
appointments  in  confectioner's  shops  when  Ann  is  in 
London." 


352  THE  PATRICIAN 

The  dangerous  little  gleam  in  Barbara's  eyes 
escaped  his  vision  but  not  that  of  Lady  Valleys,  who 
said  at  once: 

"No  doubt  you  had  the  best  of  reasons,  my  dear." 

Barbara  curled  her  lip.  Had  it  not  been  for  the 
scene  they  had  been  through  that  day  with  Mil- 
toun,  and  for  their  very  real  anxiety,  both  would 
have  seen,  then,  that  while  their  daughter  was  in 
this  mood,  least  said  was  soonest  mended.  But 
their  nerves  were  not  quite  within  control;  and 
with  more  than  a  touch  of  impatience  Lord  Valleys 
ejaculated : 

"It  doesn't  appear  to  you,  I  suppose,  to  require 
any  explanation?" 

Barbara  answered: 

"No." 

"Ah!"  said  Lord  Valleys:  "I  see.  An  explana- 
tion can  be  had  no  doubt  from  the  gentleman  whose 
sense  of  proportion  was  such  as  to  cause  him  to  sug- 
gest such  a  thing." 

"He  did  not  suggest  it.    I  did." 

Lord  Valleys'  eyebrows  rose  still  higher. 

"Indeed!"  he  said. 

"Geoffrey!"  murmured  Lady  Valleys,  "I  thought 
/  was  to  talk  to  Babs." 

"It  would  no  doubt  be  wiser." 

In  Barbara,  thus  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  seri- 
ously reprimanded,  there  was  at  work  the  most  pe- 
culiar sensation  she  had  ever  felt,  as  if  something 
were  scraping  her  very  skin — a  sick,  and  at  the  same 
time  devilish,  feeling.  At  that  moment  she  could 


THE  PATRICIAN  353 

have  struck  her  father  dead.  But  she  showed 
nothing,  having  lowered  the  lids  of  her  eyes. 

"Anything  else?"  she  said. 

Lord  Valleys'  jaw  had  become  suddenly  more 
prominent. 

"As  a  sequel  to  your  share  in  Miltoun's  business, 
it  is  peculiarly  entrancing." 

"My  dear,"  broke  in  Lady  Valleys  very  suddenly, 
"Babs  will  tell  me.  It's  nothing,  of  course." 

Barbara's  calm  voice  said  again: 

"Anything  else?" 

The  repetition  of  this  phrase  in  that  maddening, 
cool  voice  almost  broke  down  her  father's  sorely 
tried  control. 

"Nothing  from  you,"  he  said  with  deadly  coldness. 
"I  shall  have  the  honour  of  telling  this  gentleman 
what  I  think  of  him." 

At  those  words  Barbara  drew  herself  together,  and 
turned  her  eyes  from  one  face  to  the  other. 

Under  that  gaze,  which  for  all  its  cool  hardness, 
was  so  furiously  alive,  neither  Lord  nor  Lady  Valleys 
could  keep  quite  still.  It  was  as  if  she  had  stripped 
from  them  the  well-bred  mask  of  those  whose  spirits, 
by  long  unquestioning  acceptance  of  themselves,  have 
become  inelastic,  inexpansive,  commoner  than  they 
knew.  In  fact  a  rather  awful  moment !  Then  Bar- 
bara said: 

"If  there's  nothing  else,  I'm  going  to  bed.  Good- 
night!" 

And  as  calmly  as  she  had  come  in,  she  went  out. 

When  she  had  regained  her  room,  she  locked  the 


354  THE  PATRICIAN 

door,  threw  off  her  cloak,  and  looked  at  herself  in  tho 
glass.  With  pleasure  she  saw  how  firmly  her  teeth 
were  clenched,  how  her  breast  was  heaving,  and  how 
her  eyes  seemed  to  be  stabbing  herself.  And  all  the 
time  she  thought: 
"Very  well  I  My  dears!  Very  well  I" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN  that  mood  of  rebellious  mortification  she  fell 
asleep.  And,  curiously  enough,  dreamed  not  of  him 
whom  she  had  in  mind  been  so  furiously  defending, 
but  of  Harbinger.  She  fancied  herself  in  prison, 
lying  in  a  cell  fashioned  like  the  drawing-room  at 
Sea  House;  and  in  the  next  cell,  into  which  she  could 
somehow  look,  Harbinger  was  digging  at  the  wall 
with  his  nails.  She  could  distinctly  see  the  hair  on 
the  back  of  his  hands,  and  hear  him  breathing.  The 
hole  he  was  making  grew  larger  and  larger.  Her 
heart  began  to  beat  furiously;  she  awoke. 

She  rose  with  a  new  and  malicious  resolution  to 
show  no  sign  of  rebellion,  to  go  through  the  day  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  to  deceive  them  all,  and 

then !  Exactly  what  'and  then'  meant,  she  did 

not  explain  even  to  herself. 

In  accordance  with  this  plan  of  action  she  pre- 
sented an  untroubled  front  at  breakfast,  went  out 
riding  with  little  Ann,  and  shopping  with  her  mother 
afterwards.  Owing  to  this  news  of  Miltoun  the 
journey  to  Scotland  had  been  postponed.  She  par- 
ried with  cool  ingenuity  each  attempt  made  by  Lady 
Valleys  to  draw  her  into  conversation  on  the  subject 
of  that  meeting  at  Custard's,  nor  would  she  talk  of 
her  brother;  in  every  other  way  she  was  her  usual 

353 


356  THE  PATRICIAN 

self.  In  the  afternoon  she  even  volunteered  to  ac- 
company her  mother  to  old  Lady  Harbinger's  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Prince's  Gate.  She  knew  that 
Harbinger  would  be  there,  and  with  the  thought  of 
meeting  that  other  at  'five  o'clock,'  had  a  cynical 
pleasure  in  thus  encountering  him.  It  was  so  com- 
plete a  blind  to  them  all!  Then,  feeling  that  she  was 
accomplishing  a  masterstroke,  she  even  told  him,  in 
her  mother's  hearing,  that  she  would  walk  home, 
and  he  might  come  if  he  cared.  He  did  care. 

But  when  once  she  had  begun  to  swing  along  in 
the  mellow  afternoon,  under  the  mellow  trees,  where 
the  air  was  sweetened  by  the  South- West  wind,  all 
that  mutinous,  reckless  mood  of  hers  vanished,  she 
felt  suddenly  happy  and  kind,  glad  to  be  walking  with 
him.  To-day  too  he  was  cheerful,  as  if  determined 
not  to  spoil  her  gaiety;  and  she  was  grateful  for  this. 
Once  or  twice  she  even  put  her  hand  up  and  touched 
his  sleeve,  calling  his  attention  to  birds  or  trees, 
friendly,  and  glad,  after  all  those  hours  of  bitter  feel- 
ings, to  be  giving  happiness.  When  they  parted  at 
the  door  of  Valleys  House,  she  looked  back  at  him 
with  a  queer,  half-rueful  smile.  For,  now  the  hour 
had  come! 

In  a  little  unfrequented  ante-room,  all  white  panels 
and  polish,  she  sat  down  to  wait.  The  entrance 
drive  was  visible  from  here;  and  she  meant  to  en- 
counter Courtier  casually  in  the  hall.  She  was  ex- 
cited, and  a  little  scornful  of  her  own  excitement. 
She  had  expected  him  to  be  punctual,  but  it  was 
already  past  five ;  and  soon  she  began  to  feel  uneasy, 


THE  PATRICIAN  357 

almost  ridiculous,  sitting  in  this  room  where  no  one 
ever  came.  Going  to  the  window,  she  looked  out. 

A  sudden  voice  behind  her,  said: 

"Auntie  Babs!" 

Turning,  she  saw  little  Ann  regarding  her  with 
those  wide,  frank,  hazel  eyes.  A  shiver  of  nerves 
passed  through  Barbara. 

"Is  this  your  room?    It's  a  nice  room,  isn't  it?" 

She  answered: 

"Quite  a  nice  room,  Ann." 

"Yes.  I've  never  been  in  here  before.  There's 
somebody  just  come,  so  I  must  go  now." 

Barbara  involuntarily  put  her  hands  up  to  her 
cheeks,  and  quickly  passed  with  her  niece  into  the 
hall.  At  the  very  door  the  footman  William  handed 
her  a  note.  She  looked  at  the  superscription.  It 
was  from  Courtier.  She  went  back  into  the  room. 
Through  its  half-closed  door  the  figure  of  little  Ann 
could  be  seen,  with  her  legs  rather  wide  apart,  and 
her  hands  clasped  on  her  low-down  belt,  pointing 
up  at  William  her  sudden  little  nose.  Barbara  shut 
the  door  abruptly,  broke  the  seal,  and  read : 

"DEAR  LADY  BARBARA, 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  my  interview  with  your  brother  was 
fruitless. 

"I  happened  to  be  sitting  in  the  Park  just  now,  and  I  want 
to  wish  you  every  happiness  before  I  go.  It  has  been  the 
greatest  pleasure  to  know  you.  I  shall  never  have  a  thought 
of  you  that  will  not  be  my  pride;  nor  a  memory  that  will  not 
help  me  to  believe  that  life  is  good.  If  I  am  tempted  to  feel 
that  things  are  dark,  I  shall  remember  that  you  are  breathing 
this  same  mortal  air.  And  to  beauty  and  joy  I  shall  take  off 


358  THE  PATRICIAN 

my  hat  with  the  greater  reverence,  that  once  I  was  permitted 
to  walk  and  talk  with  you.  And  so,  good-bye,  and  God  bless 
you.  Your  faithful  servant, 

"CHARLES  COURTIER." 

Her  cheeks  burned,  quick  sighs  escaped  her  lips; 
she  read  the  letter  again,  but  before  getting  to  the  end 
could  not  see  the  words  for  mist.  If  in  that  letter 
there  had  been  a  word  of  complaint  or  even  of  regret ! 
She  could  not  let  him  go  like  this,  without  good-bye, 
without  any  explanation  at  all.  He  should  not  think 
of  her  as  a  cold,  stony  flirt,  who  had  been  merely 
stealing  a  few  weeks'  amusement  out  of  him.  She 
would  explain  to  him  at  all  events  that  it  had  not  been 
that.  She  would  make  him  understand  that  it  was 
not  what  he  thought — that  something  in  her  wanted 

— wanted !    Her  mind  was  all  confused .    ' '  What 

was  it?"  she  thought:  "What  did  I  do?"  And  sore 
with  anger  at  herself,  she  screwed  the  letter  up  in  her 
glove,  and  ran  out.  She  walked  swiftly  down  to 
Piccadilly,  and  crossed  into  the  Green  Park.  There 
she  passed  Lord  Malvezin  and  a  friend  strolling  up 
towards  Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  gave  them  a  very 
faint  bow.  The  composure  of  those  two  precise  and 
well-groomed  figures  sickened  her  just  then.  She 
wanted  to  run,  to  fly  to  this  meeting  that  should  re- 
move from  him  the  odious  feelings  he  must  have, 
that  she,  Barbara  Caradoc,  was  a  vulgar  enchantress, 
a  common  traitress  and  coquette!  And  his  letter — 
without  a  syllable  of  reproach!  Her  cheeks  burned 
so,  that  she  could  not  help  trying  to  hide  them  from 
people  who  passed. 


THE  PATRICIAN  359 

As  she  drew  nearer  to  his  rooms  she  walked  slower, 
forcing  herself  to  think  what  she  should  do,  what  she 
should  let  him  do!  But  she  continued  resolutely  for- 
ward. She  would  not  shrink  now — whatever  came 
of  it!  Her  heart  fluttered,  seemed  to  stop  beating, 
fluttered  again.  She  set  her  teeth ;  a  sort  of  desperate 
hilarity  rose  in  her.  It  was  an  adventure!  Then 
she  was  gripped  by  the  feeling  that  had  come  to  her 
on  the  roof.  The  whole  thing  was  bizarre,  ridiculous ! 
She  stopped,  and  drew  the  letter  from  her  glove.  It 
might  be  ridiculous,  but  it  was  due  from  her;  and 
closing  her  lips  very  tight,  she  walked  on.  In 
thought  she  was  already  standing  close  to  him,  her 
eyes  shut,  waiting,  with  her  heart  beating  wildly,  to 
know  what  she  would  feel  when  his  lips  had  spoken, 
perhaps  touched  her  face  or  hand.  And  she  had  a 
sort  of  mirage  vision  of  herself,  with  eyelashes  resting 
on  her  cheeks,  lips  a  little  parted,  arms  helpless  at 
her  sides.  Yet,  incomprehensibly,  his  figure  was 
invisible.  She  discovered  then  that  she  was  stand- 
ing before  his  door. 

She  rang  the  bell  calmly,  but  instead  of  dropping 
her  hand,  pressed  the  little  bare  patch  of  palm  left 
open  by  the  glove  to  her  face,  to  see  whether  it  was 
indeed  her  own  cheek  flaming  so. 

The  door  had  been  opened  by  some  unseen  agency, 
disclosing  a  passage  and  flight  of  stairs  covered  by  a 
red  carpet,  at  the  foot  of  which  lay  an  old,  tangled, 
brown-white  dog  full  of  fleas  and  sorrow.  Unreason- 
ing terror  seized  on  Barbara;  her  body  remained 
rigid,  but  her  spirit  began  flying  back  across  the 


360  THE  PATRICIAN 

Green  Park,  to  the  very  hall  of  Valleys  House.  Then 
she  saw  coming  towards  her  a  youngish  woman  in  a 
blue  apron,  with  mild,  reddened  eyes. 

"Is  this  where  Mr.  Courtier  lives?" 

"Yes,  miss."  The  teeth  of  the  young  woman  were 
few  in  number  and  rather  black;  and  Barbara  could 
only  stand  there  saying  nothing,  as  if  her  body  had 
been  deserted  between  the  sunlight  and  this  dim  red 
passage,  which  led  to — what? 

The  woman  spoke  again: 

"I'm  sorry  if  you  was  wanting  him,  miss,  he's  just 
gone  away." 

Barbara  felt  a  movement  in  her  heart,  like  the 
twang  and  quiver  of  an  elastic  band,  suddenly  re- 
laxed. She  bent  to  stroke  the  head  of  the  old  dog, 
who  was  smelling  her  shoes.  The  woman  said : 

"And,  of  course,  I  can't  give  you  his  address,  be- 
cause he's  gone  to  foreign  parts." 

With  a  murmur,  of  whose  sense  she  knew  nothing, 
Barbara  hurried  out  into  the  sunshine.  Was  she 
glad  ?  Was  she  sorry  ?  At  the  corner  of  the  street 
she  turned  and  looked  back;  the  two  heads,  of  the 
woman  and  the  dog,  were  there  still,  poked  out 
through  the  doorway. 

A  horrible  inclination  to  laugh  seized  her,  followed 
by  as  horrible  a  desire  to  cry. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

BY  the  river  the  West  wind,  whose  murmuring  had 
visited  Courtier  and  Miltoun  the  night  before,  was 
bringing  up  the  first  sky  of  autumn.  Slow-creeping 
and  fleecy  grey,  the  clouds  seemed  trying  to  over- 
power a  sun  that  shone  but  fitfully  even  thus  early  in 
the  day.  While  Audrey  Noel  was  dressing  sunbeams 
danced  desperately  on  the  white  wall,  like  little  lost 
souls  with  no  to-morrow,  or  gnats  that  wheel  and 
wheel  in  brief  joy,  leaving  no  footmarks  on  the  air. 
Through  the  chinks  of  a  side  window  covered  by  a 
dark  blind  some  smoky  filaments  of  light  were  teth- 
ered to  the  back  of  her  mirror.  Compounded  of 
trembling  grey  spirals,  so  thick  to  the  eye  that  her 
hand  felt  astonishment  when  it  failed  to  grasp  them, 
and  so  jealous  as  ghosts  of  the  space  they  occupied, 
they  brought  a  moment's  distraction  to  a  heart  not 
happy.  For  how  could  she  be  happy,  her  lover  away 
from  her  now  thirty  hours,  without  having  overcome 
with  his  last  kisses  the  feeling  of  disaster  which  had 
settled  on  her  when  he  told  her  of  his  resolve.  Her 
eyes  had  seen  deeper  than  his;  her  instinct  had  re- 
ceived a  message  from  Fate. 

To  be  the  dragger-down,  the  destroyer  of  his  use- 
fulness; to  be  not  the  helpmate,  but  the  clog;  not 
the  inspiring  sky,  but  the  cloud!  And  because  of  a 

361 


362  THE  PATRICIAN 

scruple  which  she  could  not  understand  I  She  had 
no  anger  with  that  unintelligible  scruple;  but  her 
fatalism,  and  her  sympathy  had  followed  it  out  into 
his  future.  Things  being  so,  it  could  not  be  long 
before  he  felt  that  her  love  was  maiming  him;  even 
if  he  went  on  desiring  her,  it  would  be  only  with  his 
body.  And  if,  for  this  scruple,  he  were  capable  of 
giving  up  his  public  life,  he  would  be  capable  of 
living  on  with  her  after  his  love  was  dead!  This 
thought  she  could  not  bear.  It  stung  to  the  very 
marrow  of  her  nerves.  And  yet  surely  Life  could 
not  be  so  cruel  as  to  have  given  her  such  happiness 
meaning  to  take  it  from  her!  Surely  her  love  was 
not  to  be  only  one  summer's  day;  his  love  but  an 
embrace,  and  then — for  ever  nothing! 

This  morning,  fortified  by  despair,  she  admitted 
her  own  beauty.  He  would,  he  must  want  her  more 
than  that  other  life,  at  the  very  thought  of  which  her 
face  darkened.  That  other  life  so  hard,  and  far 
from  her!  So  loveless,  formal,  and  yet — to  him  so 
real,  so  desperately,  accursedly  real!  If  he  must 
indeed  give  up  his  career,  then  surely  the  life  they 
could  live  together  would  make  up  to  him — a  life 
among  simple  and  sweet  things,  all  over  the  world, 
with  music  and  pictures,  and  the  flowers  and  all 
Nature,  and  friends  who  sought  them  for  themselves, 
and  in  being  kind  to  everyone,  and  helping  the  poor 
and  the  unfortunate,  and  loving  each  other!  But  he 
did  not  want  that  sort  of  life!  What  was  the  good 
of  pretending  that  he  did  ?  It  was  right  and  natural 
he  should  want  to  use  his  powers!  To  lead  and 


THE  PATRICIAN  36^ 

serve!  She  would  not  have  him  otherwise.  With 
these  thoughts  hovering  and  darting  within  her,  she 
went  on  twisting  and  coiling  her  dark  hair,  and  bury- 
ing her  heart  beneath  its  lace  defences.  She  noted 
too,  with  her  usual  care,  two  fading  blossoms  in  the 
bowl  of  flowers  on  her  dressing-table,  and,  removing 
them,  emptied  out  the  water  and  refilled  the  bowl. 

Before  she  left  her  bedroom  the  sunbeams  had 
already  ceased  to  dance,  the  grey  filaments  of  light 
were  gone.  Autumn  sky  had  come  into  its  own. 
Passing  the  mirror  in  the  hall  which  was  always 
rough  with  her,  she  had  not  courage  to  glance  at  it. 
Then  suddenly  a  woman's  belief  in  the  power  of  her 
charm  came  to  her  aid;  she  felt  almost  happy — 
surely  he  must  love  her  better  than  his  conscience! 
But  that  confidence  was  very  tremulous,  ready  to 
yield  to  the  first  rebuff.  Even  the  friendly  fresh- 
cheeked  maid  seemed  that  morning  to  be  regarding 
her  with  compassion;  and  all  the  innate  sense,  not 
of  'good  form,'  but  of  form,  which  made  her  shrink 
from  anything  that  should  disturb  or  hurt  another, 
or  make  anyone  think  she  was  to  be  pitied,  rose  up 
at  once  within  her;  she  became  more  than  ever  care- 
ful to  show  nothing  even  to  herself.  So  she  passed 
the  morning,  mechanically  doing  the  little  usual 
things.  An  overpowering  longing  was  with  her  all 
the  time,  to  get  him  away  with  her  from  England, 
and  see  whether  the  thousand  beauties  she  could 
show  him  would  not  fire  him  with  love  of  the  things 
she  loved.  As  a  girl  she  had  spent  nearly  three  years 
abroad.  And  Eustace  had  never  been  to  Italy,  nor 


364  THE  PATRICIAN 

to  her  beloved  mountain  valleys!  Then,  the  remem- 
brance of  his  rooms  at  the  Temple  broke  in  on  that 
vision,  and  shattered  it.  No  Titian's  feast  of  gen- 
tian, tawny  brown,  and  alpenrose  could  intoxicate 
the  lover  of  those  books,  those  papers,  that  great  map. 
And  the  scent  of  leather  came  to  her  now  as  poig- 
nantly as  if  she  were  once  more  flitting  about  noise- 
lessly on  her  business  of  nursing.  Then  there  rushed 
through  her  again  the  warm  wonderful  sense  that 
had  been  with  her  all  those  precious  days — of  love 
that  knew  secretly  of  its  approaching  triumph  and 
fulfilment ;  the  delicious  sense  of  giving  every  minute 
of  her  time,  every  thought,  and  movement;  and  all 
the  sweet  unconscious  waiting  for  the  divine,  irrev- 
ocable moment  when  at  last  she  would  give  herself 
and  be  his.  The  remembrance  too  of  how  tired,  how 
sacredly  tired  she  had  been,  and  of  how  she  had  smiled 
all  the  time  with  her  inner  joy  of  being  tired  for  him. 

The  sound  of  the  bell  startled  her.  His  telegram 
had  said,  the  afternoon!  She  determined  to  show 
nothing  of  the  trouble  darkening  the  whole  world  for 
her,  and  drew  a  deep  breath,  waiting  for  his  kiss. 

It  was  not  Miltoun,  but  Lady  Casterley. 

The  shock  sent  the  blood  buzzing  into  her  temples. 
Then  she  noticed  that  the  little  figure  before  her  was 
also  trembling;  drawing  up  a  chair,  she  said:  "Won't 
you  sit  down?" 

The  tone  of  that  old  voice,  thanking  her,  brought 
back  sharply  the  memory  of  her  garden,  at  Monk- 
'land,  bathed  in  the  sweetness  and  shimmer  of  sum- 
mer, and  of  Barbara  standing  at  her  gate  towering 


THE  PATRICIAN  365 

above  this  little  figure,  which  now  sat  there  so  silent, 
with  very  white  face.  Those  carved  features,  those 
keen,  yet  veiled  eyes,  had  too  often  haunted  her 
thoughts ;  they  were  like  a  bad  dream  come  true. 

"My  grandson  is  not  here,  is  he?" 

Audrey  shook  her  head. 

"We  have  heard  of  his  decision.  I  will  not  beat 
about  the  bush  with  you.  It  is  a  disaster — for  me  a 
calamity.  I  have  known  and  loved  him  since  he 
was  born,  and  I  have  been  foolish  enough  to  dream 
dreams  about  him.  I  wondered  perhaps  whether 
you  knew  how  much  we  counted  on  him.  You  must 
forgive  an  old  woman's  coming  here  like  this.  At 
my  age  there  are  few  things  that  matter,  but  they 
matter  very  much." 

And  Audrey  thought:  "And  at  my  age  there  is  but 
one  thing  that  matters,  and  that  matters  worse  than 
death."  But  she  did  not  speak.  To  whom,  to 
what  should  she  speak?  To  this  hard  old  woman, 
who  personified  the  world  ?  Of  what  use,  words  ? 

"I  can  say  to  you,"  went  on  the  voice  of  the  little 
figure,  that  seemed  so  to  fill  the  room  with  its  grey 
presence,  "what  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  say  to 
others;  for  you  are  not  hard-hearted." 

A  quiver  passed  up  from  the  heart  so  praised  to  the 
still  lips.  No,  she  was  not  hard-hearted!  She  could 
even  feel  for  this  old  woman  from  whose  voice  anxiety 
had  stolen  its  despotism. 

"Eustace  cannot  live  without  his  career.  His 
career  is  himself,  he  must  be  doing,  and  leading,  and 
spending  his  powers.  What  he  has  given  you  is  not 


366  THE  PATRICIAN 

his  true  self.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  but  the  truth 
is  the  truth,  and  we  must  all  bow  before  it.  I  may 
be  hard,  but  I  can  respect  sorrow." 

To  respect  sorrow!  Yes,  this  grey  visitor  could  do 
that,  as  the  wind  passing  over  the  sea  respects  its 
surface,  as  the  air  respects  the  surface  of  a  rose,  but 
to  penetrate  to  the  heart,  to  understand  her  sorrow, 
that  old  age  could  not  do  for  youth!  As  well  try  to 
track  out  the  secret  of  the  twistings  in  the  flight  of 
those  swallows  out  there  above  the  river,  or  to  follow 
to  its  source  the  faint  scent  of  the  lilies  in  that  bowl! 
How  should  she  know  what  was  passing  in  here — this 
little  old  woman  whose  blood  was  cold  ?  And  Audrey 
had  the  sensation  of  watching  someone  pelt  her  with 
the  rind  and  husks  of  what  her  own  spirit  had  long 
devoured.  She  had  a  longing  to  get  up,  and  take  the 
hand,  the  chill,  spidery  hand  of  age,  and  thrust  it  into 
her  breast,  and  say:  "Feel  that,  and  cease!" 

But,  withal,  she  never  lost  her  queer  dull  compas- 
sion for  the  owner  of  that  white  carved  face.  It  was 
not  her  visitor's  fault  that  she  had  cornel  Again 
Lady  Casterley  was  speaking. 

"It  is  early  days.  If  you  do  not  end  it  now,  at 
once,  it  will  only  come  harder  on  you  presently. 
You  know  how  determined  he  is.  He  will  not 
change  his  mind.  If  you  cut  him  off  from  his  work 
in  life,  it  will  but  recoil  on  you.  I  can  only  expect 
your  hatred,  for  talking  like  this,  but  believe  me,  it's 
for  your  good,  as  well  as  his,  in  the  long  run." 

A  tumultuous  heart-beating  of  ironical  rage  seized 
on  the  listener  to  that  speech.  Her  good !  The  good 


THE  PATRICIAN  367 

of  a  corse  that  the  breath  is  just  abandoning;  the 
good  of  a  flower  beneath  a  heel;  the  good  of  an  old 
dog  whose  master  leaves  it  for  the  last  time!  Slowly 
a  weight  like  lead  stopped  all  that  fluttering  of  her 
heart.  If  she  did  not  end  it  at  once!  The  words 
had  now  been  spoken  that  for  so  many  hours,  she 
knew,  had  lain  unspoken  within  her  own  breast. 
Yes,  if  she  did  not,  she  could  never  know  a  moment's 
peace,  feeling  that  she  was  forcing  him  to  a  death 
in  life,  desecrating  her  own  love  and  pride!  And  the 
spur  had  been  given  by  another!  The  thought  that 
someone — this  hard  old  woman  of  the  hard  world — 
should  have  shaped  in  words  the  hauntings  of  her 
love  and  pride  through  all  those  ages  since  Miltoun 
spoke  to  her  of  his  resolve ;  that  someone  else  should 
have  had  to  tell  her  what  her  heart  had  so  long 
known  it  must  do — this  stabbed  her  like  a  knife! 
This,  at  all  events,  she  could  not  bear! 

She  stood  up,  and  said: 

"Please  leave  me  now!  I  have  a  great  many 
things  to  do,  before  I  go." 

With  a  sort  of  pleasure  she  saw  a  look  of  bewilder- 
ment cover  that  old  face ;  with  a  sort  of  pleasure  she 
marked  the  trembling  of  the  hands  raising  their 
owner  from  the  chair;  and  heard  the  stammering 
in  the  voice:  "You  are  going?  Before — before  he 
comes?  You — you  won't  be  seeing  him  again?" 
With  a  sort  of  pleasure  she  marked  the  hesitation, 
which  did  not  know  whether  to  thank,  or  bless,  or 
just  say  nothing  and  creep  away.  With  a  sort  of 
pleasure  she  watched  the  flush  mount  in  the  faded 


368  THE  PATRICIAN 

cheeks,  the  faded  lips  pressed  together.  Then,  at 
the  scarcely  whispered  words:  "Thank  you,  my 
dear!"  she  turned,  unable  to  bear  further  sight  or 
sound.  She  went  to  the  window  and  pressed  her 
forehead  against  the  glass,  trying  to  think  of  nothing. 
She  heard  the  sound  of  wheels — Lady  Casterley  had 
gone.  And  then,  of  all  the  awful  feelings  man  or 
woman  can  know,  she  experienced  the  worst:  She 
could  not  cry! 

At  this  most  bitter  and  deserted  moment  of  her 
life,  she  felt  strangely  calm,  foreseeing  clearly,  exactly, 
what  she  must  do,  and  where  go.  Quickly  it  must 
be  done,  or  it  would  never  be  done!  Quickly!  And 
without  fuss!  She  put  some  things  together,  sent 
the  maid  out  for  a  cab,  and  sat  down  to  write. 

She  must  do  and  say  nothing  that  could  excite  him, 
and  bring  back  his  illness.  Let  it  all  be  sober,  reason- 
able! It  would  be  easy  to  let  him  know  where  she 
was  going,  to  write  a  letter  that  would  bring  him 
flying  after  her.  But  to  write  the  calm,  reasonable 
words  that  would  keep  him  waiting  and  thinking, 
till  he  never  again  came  to  her,  broke  her  heart. 

When  she  had  finished  and  sealed  the  letter,  she 
sat  motionless  with  a  numb  feeling  in  hands  and 
brain,  trying  to  realize  what  she  had  next  to  do.  To 
go,  and  that  was  all! 

Her  trunks  had  been  taken  down  already.  She 
chose  the  little  hat  that  he  liked  her  best  in,  and  over 
it  fastened  her  thickest  veil.  Then,  putting  on  her 
travelling  coat  and  gloves,  she  looked  in  the  long 


THE  PATRICIAN  369 

mirror,  and  seeing  that  there  was  nothing  more  tc 
keep  her,  lifted  her  dressing  bag,  and  went  down. 

Over  on  the  embankment  a  child  was  crying;  and 
the  passionate  screaming  sound,  broken  by  the  gulp- 
ing of  tears,  made  her  cover  her  lips,  as  though  she 
had  heard  her  own  escaped  soul  wailing  out  there. 

She  leaned  out  of  the  cab  to  say  to  the  maid : 

"Go  and  comfort  that  crying,  Ella." 

Only  when  she  was  alone  in  the  train,  secure  from 
all  eyes,  did  she  give  way  to  desperate  weeping.  The 
white  smoke  rolling  past  the  windows  was  not  more 
evanescent  than  her  joy  had  been.  For  she  had  no 
illusions — it  was  over!  From  first  to  last — not  quite 
a  year!  But  even  at  this  moment,  not  for  all  the 
world  would  she  have  been  without  her  love,  gone 
to  its  grave,  like  a  dead  child  that  evermore  would 
be  touching  her  breast  with  its  wistful  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

BARBARA  returning  from  her  visit  to  Courtier's 
deserted  rooms,  was  met  at  Valleys  House  with  the 
message:  Would  she  please  go  at  once  to  Lady 
Casterley  ? 

When,  in  obedience,  she  reached  Ravensham,  she 
found  her  grandmother  and  Lord  Dennis  in  the  white 
room.  They  were  standing  by  one  of  the  tall  win- 
dows, apparently  contemplating  the  view.  They 
turned  indeed  at  sound  of  Barbara's  approach,  but 
neither  of  them  spoke  or  nodded.  Not  having  seen 
her  grandfather  since  before  Miltoun's  illness,  Bar- 
bara found  it  strange  to  be  so  treated;  she  too  took 
her  stand  silently  before  the  window.  A  very  large 
wasp  was  crawling  up  the  pane,  then  slipping  down 
with  a  faint  buzz. 

Suddenly  Lady  Casterley  spoke. 

"Kill  that  thing!" 

Lord  Dennis  drew  forth  his  handkerchief. 

"Not  with  that,  Dennis.  It  will  make  a  mess. 
Take  a  paper  knife." 

"I  was  going  to  put  it  out,"  murmured  Lord 
Dennis. 

"Let  Barbara  with  her  gloves." 

Barbara  moved  towards  the  pant. 

370 


THE  PATRICIAN  371 

"It's  a  hornet,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"So  he  is!"  said  Lord  Dennis,  dreamily. 

"Nonsense,"  murmured  Lady  Casterley,  "it's  a 
common  wasp." 

"I  know  it's  a  hornet,  Granny.  The  rings  are 
darker." 

Lady  Casterley  bent  down;  when  she  raised  herself 
she  had  a  slipper  in  her  hand. 

"Don't  irritate  him!"  cried  Barbara,  catching  her 
wrist.  But  Lady  Casterley  freed  her  hand. 

"I  will,"  she  said,  and  brought  the  sole  of  the 
slipper  down  on  the  insect,  so  that  it  dropped  on  the 
floor,  dead.  "He  has  no  business  in  here." 

And,  as  if  that  little  incident  had  happened  to 
three  other  people,  they  again  stood  silently  looking 
through  the  window. 

Then  Lady  Casterley  turned  to  Barbara. 

"Well,  have  you  realized  the  mischief  that  you've 
done?" 

"Ann!"  murmured  Lord  Dennis. 

"Yes,  yes;  she  is  your  favourite,  but  that  won't 
save  her.  This  woman — to  her  great  credit — I  say 
to  her  great  credit — has  gone  away,  so  as  to  put  her- 
self out  of  Eustace's  reach,  until  he  has  recovered 
his  senses." 

With  a  sharp-drawn  breath  Barbara  said: 

"Oh!  poor  thing!" 

But  on  Lady  Casterley's  face  had  come  an  almost 
cruel  look. 

"  Ah ! "  she  said :  "Exactly.  But,  curiously  enough, 
I  am  thinking  of  Eustace."  Her  little  figure  was 


372  THE  PATRICIAN 

quivering  from  head  to  foot:  "This  will  be  a  lesson 
to  you  not  to  play  with  fire!" 

"Ann!"  murmured  Lord  Dennis  again,  slipping 
his  arm  through  Barbara's. 

"The  world,"  went  on  Lady  Casterley,  "is  a  place 
of  facts,  not  of  romantic  fancies.  You  have  done 
more  harm  than  can  possibly  be  repaired.  I  went 
to  her  myself.  I  was  very  much  moved.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  your  foolish  conduct " 

"Ann!"  said  Lord  Dennis  once  more. 

Lady  Casterley  paused,  tapping  the  floor  with  her 
little  foot.  Barbara's  eyes  were  gleaming. 

"Is  there  anything  else  you  would  like  to  squash, 
dear?" 

"Babs!"  murmured  Lord  Dennis;  but,  uncon- 
sciously pressing  his  hand  against  her  heart,  the  girl 
went  on. 

"You  are  lucky  to  be  abusing  me  to-day — if  it  had 
been  yesterday " 

At  these  dark  words  Lady  Casterley  turned  away, 
her  shoes  leaving  little  dull  stains  on  the  polished  floor. 

Barbara  raised  to  her  cheek  the  fingers  which  she 
had  been  so  convulsively  embracing.  "Don't  let 
her  go  on,  uncle,"  she  whispered,  "not  just  now!" 

"No,  no,  my  dear,"  Lord  Dennis  murmured, 
"certainly  not — it  is  enough." 

"It  has  been  your  sentimental  folly,"  came  Lady 
Casterley's  voice  from  a  far  corner,  "which  has 
brought  this  on  the  boy." 

Responding  to  the  pressure  of  the  hand,  back  now 
at  her  waist,  Barbara  did  not  answer;  and  the  sound 


THE  PATRICIAN  373 

of  the  little  feet  retracing  their  steps  rose  in  the  still- 
ness. Neither  of  those  two  at  the  window  turned 
their  heads;  once  more  the  feet  receded,  and  again 
began  coming  back. 

Suddenly  Barbara,  pointing  to  the  floor,  cried: 

"Oh!  Granny,  for  Heaven's  sake,  stand  still; 
haven't  you  squashed  the  hornet  enough,  even  if  he 
did  come  in  where  he  hadn't  any  business?" 

Lady  Casterley  looked  down  at  the  debris  of  the 
insect. 

"Disgusting!"  she  said;  but  when  she  next  spoke 
it  was  in  a  less  hard,  more  querulous  voice. 

"That  man — what  was  his  name — have  you  got 
rid  of  him?" 

Barbara  went  crimson. 

"Abuse  my  friends,  and  I  will  go  straight  home 
and  never  speak  to  you  again." 

For  a  moment  Lady  Casterley  looked  almost  as  if 
she  might  strike  her  granddaughter;  then  a  little  sar- 
donic smile  broke  out  on  her  face. 

"A  creditable  sentiment!"  she  said. 

Letting  fall  her  uncle's  hand,  Barbara  cried: 

"In  any  case,  I'd  better  go.  I  don't  know  why 
you  sent  for  me." 

Lady  Casterley  answered  coldly: 

"To  let  you  and  your  mother  know  of  this  woman's 
most  unselfish  behaviour ;  to  put  you  on  the  qui  vive 
for  what  Eustace  may  do  now;  to  give  you  a  chance 
to  make  up  for  your  folly.  Moreover  to  warn  you 
against "  she  paused. 

"Yes?" 


374  THE  PATRICIAN 

"Let  me "  interrupted  Lord  Dennis. 

"No,  Uncle  Dennis,  let  Granny  take  her  shoe!" 

She  had  withdrawn  against  the  wall,  tall,  and  as  it 
were,  formidable,  with  her  head  up.  Lady  Casterley 
remained  silent. 

"Have  you  got  it  ready?"  cried  Barbara:  "Un- 
fortunately he's  flown!" 

A  voice  said: 

"Lord  Miltoun." 

He  had  come  in  quietly  and  quickly,  preceding  the 
announcement,  and  stood  almost  touching  that  little 
group  at  the  window  before  they  caught  sight  of  him. 
His  face  had  the  rather  ghastly  look  of  sunburnt  faces 
from  which  emotion  has  driven  the  blood;  and  his 
eyes,  always  so  much  the  most  living  part  of  him, 
were  full  of  such  stabbing  anger,  that  involuntarily 
they  all  looked  down. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  alone,"  he  said  to  Lady 
Casterley. 

Visibly,  for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  her  life,  that 
indomitable  little  figure  flinched.  Lord  Dennis 
drew  Barbara  away,  but  at  the  door  he  whispered: 

"Stay  here  quietly,  Babs;  I  don't  like  the  look  of 
this."  ' 

Unnoticed,  Barbara  remained  hovering. 

The  two  voices,  low,  and  so  far  off  in  the  long 
white  room,  were  uncannily  distinct,  emotion  charg- 
ing each  word  with  preternatural  power  of  penetra- 
tion ;  and  every  movement  of  the  speakers  had  to  the 
girl's  excited  eyes  a  weird  precision,  as  of  little  figures 
she  had  once  seen  at  a  Paris  puppet  show.  She 


THE  PATRICIAN  375 

could  hear  Miltoun  reproaching  his  grandmother  in 
words  terribly  dry  and  bitter.  She  edged  nearer  and 
nearer,  till,  seeing  that  they  paid  no  more  heed  to 
her  than  if  she  were  an  attendant  statue,  she  had  re- 
gained her  position  by  the  window. 

Lady  Casterley  was  speaking. 

"I  was  not  going  to  see  you  ruined  before  my  eyes, 
Eustace.  I  did  what  I  did  at  very  great  cost.  I  did 
my  best  for  you." 

Barbara  saw  Miltoun's  face  transfigured  by  a 
dreadful  smile — the  smile  of  one  defying  his  torturer 
with  hate.  Lady  Casterley  went  on: 

"Yes,  you  stand  there  looking  like  a  devil.  Hate 
me  if  you  like — but  don't  betray  us,  moaning  and 
moping  because  you  can't  have  the  moon.  Put  on 
your  armour,  and  go  down  into  the  battle.  Don't 
play  the  coward,  boy!" 

Miltoun's  answer  cut  like  the  lash  of  a  whip. 

"By  God!    Be  silent!" 

And  weirdly,  there  was  silence.  It  was  not  the 
brutality  of  the  words,  but  the  sight  of  force  suddenly 
naked  of  all  disguise — like  a  fierce  dog  let  for  a  mo- 
ment off  its  chain — which  made  Barbara  utter  a 
little  dismayed  sound.  Lady  Casterley  had  dropped 
into  a  chair,  trembling.  And  without  a  look  Miltoun 
passed  her.  If  their  grandmother  had  fallen  dead, 
Barbara  knew  he  would  not  have  stopped  to  see. 
She  ran  forward,  but  the  old  woman  waved  her  away. 

"  Go  after  him,"  she  said,  "don't  let  him  go  alone." 

And  infected  by  the  fear  in  that  wizened  voice, 
Barbara  flew. 


376  THE  PATRICIAN 

She  caught  her  brother  as  he  was  entering  the 
taxi-cab  in  which  he  had  come,  and  without  a  word 
slipped  in  beside  him.  The  driver's  face  appeared 
at  the  window,  but  Miltoun  only  motioned  with  his 
head,  as  if  to  say:  Anywhere,  away  from  here! 

The  thought  flashed  through  Barbara:  "If  only  I 
can  keep  him  in  here  with  me!" 

She  leaned  out,  and  said  quietly: 

"To  Nettlefold,  in  Sussex — never  mind  your  petrol 
— get  more  on  the  road.  You  can  have  what  fare 
you  like.  Quick!" 

The  man  hesitated,  looked  in  her  face,  and  said: 

"Very  well,  miss.    By  Dorking,  ain't  it?" 

Barbara  nodded. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  clock  over  the  stables  was  chiming  seven 
when  Miltoun  and  Barbara  passed  out  of  the  tall 
iron  gates,  in  their  swift-moving  small  world,  that 
smelled  faintly  of  petrol.  Though  the  cab  was 
closed,  light  spurts  of  rain  drifted  in  through  the  open 
windows,  refreshing  the  girl's  hot  face,  relieving  a 
little  her  dread  of  this  drive.  For,  now  that  Fate 
had  been  really  cruel,  now  that  it  no  longer  lay  in 
Miltoun's  hands  to  save  himself  from  suffering,  her 
heart  bled  for  him;  and  she  remembered  to  forget 
herself.  The  immobility  with  which  he  had  received 
her  intrusion,  was  ominous.  And  though  silent  in 
her  corner,  she  was  desperately  working  all  her 
woman's  wits  to  discover  a  way  of  breaking  into  the 
house  of  his  secret  mood.  He  appeared  not  even  to 
have  noticed  that  they  had  turned  their  backs  on 
London,  and  passed  into  Richmond  Park. 

Here  the  trees,  made  dark  by  rain,  seemed  to 
watch  gloomily  the  progress  of  this  whirring- wheeled 
red  box,  unreconciled  even  yet  to  such  harsh  intruders 
on  their  wind-scented  tranquillity.  And  the  deer, 
pursuing  happiness  on  the  sweet  grasses,  raised  dis- 
quieted noses,  as  who  should  say:  Poisoners  of  the 
fern,  defilers  of  the  trails  of  air! 

377 


378  THE  PATRICIAN 

Barbara  vaguely  felt  the  serenity  out  there  in  the 
clouds,  and  the  trees,  and  wind.  If  it  would  but 
creep  into  this  dim,  travelling  prison,  and  help  her; 
if  it  would  but  come,  like  sleep,  and  steal  away  dark 
sorrow,  and  in  one  moment  make  grief — joy.  But 
it  stayed  outside  on  its  wistful  wings ;  and  that  grand 
chasm  which  yawns  between  soul  and  soul  remained 
unbridged.  For  what  could  she  say?  How  make 
him  speak  of  what  he  was  going  to  do  ?  What  alter- 
natives indeed  were  now  before  him?  Would  he 
sullenly  resign  his  seat,  and  wait  till  he  could  find 
Audrey  Noel  again?  But  even  if  he  did  find  her, 
they  would  only  be  where  they  were.  She  had  gone, 
in  order  not  to  be  a  drag  on  him — it  would  only  be 
the  same  thing  all  over  again!  Would  he  then,  as 
Granny  had  urged  him,  put  on  his  armour,  and  go 
down  into  the  fight?  But  that  indeed  would  mean 
the  end,  for  if  she  had  had  the  strength  to  go  away 
now,  she  would  surely  never  come  back  and  break 
in  on  his  life  a  second  time.  And  a  grim  thought 
swooped  down  on  Barbara.  What  if  he  resigned 
everything!  Went  out  into  the  dark!  Men  did 
sometimes — she  knew — caught  like  this  in  the  full 
flush  of  passion.  But  surely  not  Miltoun,  with  his 
faith!  'If  the  lark's  song  means  nothing — if  that 
sky  is  a  morass  of  our  invention — if  we  are  pettily 
creeping  on,  furthering  nothing — persuade  me  of  it, 
Babs,  and  I'll  bless  you.'  But  had  he  still  that 
anchorage,  to  prevent  him  slipping  out  to  sea? 
This  sudden  thought  of  death  to  one  for  whom  life 
was  joy,  who  had  never  even  seen  the  Great  Stillness, 


THE  PATRICIAN  379 

was  very  terrifying.  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  back 
of  the  chauffeur,  in  his  drab  coat  with  the  red  collar, 
finding  some  comfort  in  its  solidity.  They  were  in  a 
taxi-cab,  in  Richmond  Park!  Death — incongruous, 
incredible  death!  It  was  stupid  to  be  frightened! 
She  forced  herself  to  look  at  Miltoun.  He  seemed 
to  be  asleep ;  his  eyes  were  closed,  his  arms  folded — 
only  a  quivering  of  his  eyelids  betrayed  him.  Im- 
possible to  tell  what  was  going  on  in  that  grim  wak- 
ing sleep,  which  made  her  feel  that  she  was  not  there 
at  all,  so  utterly  did  he  seem  withdrawn  into  himself  I 

He  opened  his  eyes,  and  said  suddenly: 

"So  you  think  I'm  going  to  lay  hands  on  myself, 
Babs?" 

Horribly  startled  by  this  reading  of  her  thoughts, 
Barbara  could  only  edge  away  and  stammer: 

"No;  oh,  no!" 

"Where  are  we  going  in  this  thing?" 

"Nettlefold.    Would  you  like  him  stopped?" 

"It  will  do  as  well  as  anywhere." 

Terrified  lest  he  should  relapse  into  that  grim 
silence,  she  timidly  possessed  herself  of  his  hand. 

It  was  fast  growing  dark;  the  cab,  having  left  the 
villas  of  Surbiton  behind,  was  flying  along  at  great 
speed  among  pine-trees  and  stretches  of  heather 
gloomy  with  faded  daylight. 

Miltoun  said  presently,  in  a  queer,  slow  voice: 
"If  I  want,  I  have  only  to  open  that  door  and  jump. 
You  who  believe  that  'to-morrow  we  die' — give  me 
the  faith  to  feel  that  I  can  free  myself  by  that  jump, 
and  out  I  go!"  Then,  seeming  to  pity  her  terrified 


380  THE  PATRICIAN 

squeeze  of  his  hand,  he  added:  "It's  all  right,  Babs; 
we  shall  sleep  comfortably  enough  in  our  beds  to- 
night." 

But,  so  desolate  to  the  girl  was  his  voice,  that  she 
hoped  now  for  silence. 

"Let  us  be  skinned  quietly,"  muttered  Miltoun, 
"if  nothing  else.  Sorry  to  have  disturbed  you." 

Pressing  close  up  to  him,  Barbara  murmured : 

"If  only Talk  to  me!" 

But  Miltoun,  though  he  stroked  her  hand,  was 
silent. 

The  cab,  moving  at  unaccustomed  speed  along 
these  deserted  roads,  moaned  dismally;  and  Barbara 
was  possessed  now  by  a  desire  which  she  dared  not 
put  in  practice,  to  pull  his  head  down,  and  rock  it 
against  her.  Her  heart  felt  empty,  and  timid;  to 
have  something  warm  resting  on  it  would  have  made 
all  the  difference.  Everything  real,  substantial,  com- 
forting, seemed  to  have  slipped  away.  Among  these 
flying  dark  ghosts  of  pine-trees — as  it  were  the  un- 
frequented borderland  between  two  worlds — the  feel- 
ing of  a  cheek  against  her  breast  alone  could  help 
muffle  the  deep  disquiet  in  her,  lost  like  a  child  in  a 
wood. 

The  cab  slackened  speed,  the  driver  was  lighting 
his  lamps;  and  his  red  face  appeared  at  the  window. 

"We'll  'ave  to  stop  here,  miss;  I'm  out  of  petrol. 
Will  you  get  some  dinner,  or  go  through?" 

"Through,"  answered  Barbara. 

While  they  were  passing  the  little  town,  buying 
their  petrol,  asking  the  way,  she  felt  less  miserable, 


THE  PATRICIAN  381 

and  even  looked  about  her  with  a  sort  of  eagerness. 
Then  when  they  had  started  again,  she  thought:  If 
I  could  get  him  to  sleep — the  sea  will  comfort  him! 
But  his  eyes  were  staring,  wide-open.  She  feigned 
sleep  herself;  letting  her  head  slip  a  little  to  one  side, 
causing  small  sounds  of  breathing  to  escape.  The 
whirring  of  the  wheels,  the  moaning  of  the  cab 
joints,  the  dark  trees  slipping  by,  the  scent  of  the  wet 
fern  drifting  in,  all  these  must  surely  help!  And 
presently  she  felt  that  he  was  indeed  slipping  into 
darkness — and  then — she  felt  nothing. 

When  she  awoke  from  the  sleep  into  which  she 
had  seen  Miltoun  fall,  the  cab  was  slowly  mounting 
a  steep  hill,  above  which  the  moon  had  risen.  The 
air  smelled  strong  and  sweet,  as  though  it  had  passed 
over  leagues  of  grass. 

"The  Downs!"  she  thought;  "I  must  have  been 
asleep!" 

In  sudden  terror,  she  looked  round  for  Miltoun. 
But  he  was  still  there,  exactly  as  before,  leaning  back 
rigid  in  his  corner  of  the  cab,  with  staring  eyes,  and 
no  other  signs  of  life.  And  still  only  half  awake, 
like  a  great  warm  sleepy  child  startled  out  of  too 
deep  slumber,  she  clutched,  and  clung  to  him.  The 
thought  that  he  had  been  sitting  like  that,  with  his 
spirit  far  away,  all  the  time  that  she  had  been  be- 
traying her  watch  in  sleep,  was  dreadful.  But  to 
her  embrace  there  was  no  response,  and  awake 
indeed  now,  ashamed,  sore,  Barbara  released  him, 
and  turned  her  face  to  the  air. 

Out  there,   two  thin,   dense-black,   long  clouds, 


382  THE  PATRICIAN 

shaped  like  the  wings  of  a  hawk,  had  joined  them- 
selves together,  so  that  nothing  of  the  moon  showed 
but  a  living  brightness  imprisoned,  like  the  eyes  and 
life  of  a  bird,  between  those  swift  sweeps  of  darkness. 
This  great  uncanny  spirit,  brooding  malevolent  over 
the  high  leagues  of  moon-wan  grass,  seemed  waiting 
to  swoop,  and  pluck  up  in  its  talons,  and  devour,  all 
that  intruded  on  the  wild  loneness  of  these  far-up 
plains  of  freedom.  Barbara  almost  expected  to  hear 
coming  from  it  the  lost  whistle  of  the  buzzard  hawks. 
And  her  dream  came  back  to  her.  Where  were  her 
wings — the  wings  that  in  sleep  had  borne  her  to  the 
stars;  the  wings  that  would  never  lift  her — waking — 
from  the  ground  ?  Where  too  were  Miltoun's  wings  ? 
She  crouched  back  into  her  corner;  a  tear  stole  up 
and  trickled  out  between  her  closed  lids — another 
and  another  followed.  Faster  and  faster  they  came. 
Then  she  felt  Miltoun's  arm  round  her,  and  heard 
him  say:  "Don't  cry,  Babs!"  Instinct  telling  her 
what  to  do,  she  laid  her  head  against  his  chest,  and 
sobbed  bitterly.  Struggling  with  those  sobs,  she 
grew  less  and  less  unhappy — knowing  that  he  could 
never  again  feel  quite  so  desolate,  as  before  he  tried 
to  give  her  comfort.  It  was  all  a  bad  dream,  and 
they  would  soon  wake  from  it!  And  they  would  be 
happy;  as  happy  as  they  had  been  before — before 
these  last  months!  And  she  whispered: 
"Only  a  little  while,  Eusty!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

OLD  Lady  Harbinger  dying  in  the  early  February 
of  the  following  year,  the  marriage  of  Barbara  with 
her  son  was  postponed  till  June. 

Much  of  the  wild  sweetness  of  Spring  still  clung 
to  the  high  moor  borders  of  Monkland  on  the  early 
morning  of  the  wedding  day. 

Barbara  was  already  up  and  dressed  for  riding 
when  her  maid  came  to  call  her;  and  noting  Stacey's 
astonished  eyes  fix  themselves  on  her  boots,  she  said: 

"Well,  Stacey?" 

"It'll  tire  you." 

"Nonsense;  I'm  not  going  to  be  hung." 

Refusing  the  company  of  a  groom,  she  made  her 
way  towards  the  stretch  of  high  moor  where  she  had 
ridden  with  Courtier  a  year  ago.  Here  over  the 
short,  as  yet  unflowering,  heather,  there  was  a  mile 
or  more  of  level  galloping  ground.  She  mounted 
steadily,  and  her  spirit  rode,  as  it  were,  before  her, 
longing  to  get  up  there  among  the  peewits  and  curlew, 
to  feel  the  crisp,  peaty  earth  slip  away  under  her, 
and  the  wind  drive  in  her  face,  under  that  deep  blue 
sky.  Carried  by  this  warm-blooded  sweetheart  of 
hers,  ready  to  jump  out  of  his  smooth  hide  with 
pleasure,  snuffling  and  sneezing  in  sheer  joy,  whose 

38.1 


384  THE  PATRICIAN 

eye  she  could  see  straying  round  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  intentions,  from  whose  lips  she  could  hear 
issuing  the  sweet  bitt-music,  whose  vagaries  even 
seemed  designed  to  startle  from  her  a  closer  embrac- 
ing— she  was  rilled  with  a  sort  of  delicious  impatience 
with  everything  that  was  not  this  perfect  communing 
with  vigour. 

Reaching  the  top,  she  put  him  into  a  gallop.  With 
the  wind  furiously  assailing  her  face  and  throat, 
every  muscle  crisped,  and  all  her  blood  tingling — 
this  was  a  very  ecstasy  of  motion! 

She  reined  in  at  the  cairn  whence  she  and  Courtier 
had  looked  down  at  the  herds  of  ponies.  It  was  the 
merest  memory  now,  vague  and  a  little  sweet,  like 
the  remembrance  of  some  exceptional  Spring  day, 
when  trees  seem  to  flower  before  your  eyes,  and  in 
sheer  wantonness  exhale  a  scent  of  lemons.  The 
ponies  were  there  still,  and  in  distance  the  shining 
sea.  She  sat  thinking  of  nothing,  but  how  good  it 
was  to  be  alive.  The  fullness  and  sweetness  of  it 
all,  the  freedom  and  strength!  Away  to  the  West 
over  a  lonely  farm  she  could  see  two  buzzard  hawks 
hunting  in  wide  circles.  She  did  not  envy  them — so 
happy  was  she,  as  happy  as  the  morning.  And  there 
came  to  her  suddenly  the  true,  the  overmastering 
longing  of  mountain  tops. 

"I  must,"  she  thought;  "I  simply  must!" 

Slipping  off  her  horse  she  lay  down  on  her  back, 
and  at  once  everything  was  lost  except  the  sky. 
Over  her  body,  supported  above  solid  earth  by  the 
warm,  soft  heather,  the  wind  skimmed  without 


THE  PATRICIAN  385 

sound  or  touch.  Her  spirit  became  one  with  that 
calm  unimaginable  freedom.  Transported  beyond 
her  own  contentment,  she  no  longer  even  knew 
whether  she  was  joyful. 

The  horse  Hal,  attempting  to  eat  her  sleeve, 
aroused  her.  She  mounted  him,  and  rode  down. 
Near  home  she  took  a  short  cut  across  a  meadow, 
through  which  flowed  two  thin  bright  streams,  form- 
ing a  delta  full  of  lingering  'milkmaids,'  mauve 
marsh  orchis,  and  yellow  flags.  From  end  to  end  of 
this  long  meadow,  so  varied,  so  pied  with  trees  and 
stones,  and  flowers,  and  water,  the  last  of  the  Spring 
was  passing. 

Some  ponies,  shyly  curious  of  Barbara  and  her 
horse,  stole  up,  and  stood  at  a  safe  distance,  with 
their  noses  dubiously  stretched  out,  swishing  their 
lean  tails.  And  suddenly,  far  up,  following  their 
own  music,  two  cuckoos  flew  across,  seeking  the 
thorn-trees  out  on  the  moor.  While  she  was  watch- 
ing the  arrowy  birds,  she  caught  sight  of  someone 
coming  towards  her  from  a  clump  of  beech-trees, 
and  suddenly  saw  that  it  was  Mrs.  Noel! 

She  rode  forward  flushing.  What  dared  she  say? 
Could  she  speak  of  her  wedding,  and  betray  Mil- 
toun's  presence?  Could  she  open  her  mouth  at 
all  without  rousing  painful  feeling  of  some  sort? 
Then,  impatient  of  indecision,  she  began: 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again.  I  didn't  know  you 
were  still  down  here." 

"I  only  came  back  to  England  yesterday,  and  I'm 
just  here  to  see  to  the  packing  of  my  things." 


386  THE  PATRICIAN 

"Oh!"  murmured  Barbara.  "You  know  what's 
happening  to  me,  I  suppose?" 

Mrs.  Noel  smiled,  looked  up,  and  said:  "I  heard 
last  night.  All  joy  to  you!" 

A  lump  rose  in  Barbara's  throat. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  have  seen  you,"  she  murmured  once 
more;  "I  expect  I  ought  to  be  getting  on,"  and  with 
the  word  "  Good-bye,"  gently  echoed,  she  rode  away. 

But  her  mood  of  delight  was  gone;  even  the  horse 
Hal  seemed  to  tread  unevenly,  for  all  that  he  was 
going  back  to  that  stable  which  ever  appeared  to  him 
desirable  ten  minutes  after  he  had  left  it. 

Except  that  her  eyes  seemed  darker,  Mrs.  Noel 
had  not  changed.  If  she  had  shown  the  faintest 
sign  of  self-pity,  the  girl  would  never  have  felt,  as  she 
did  now,  so  sorry  and  upset. 

Leaving  the  stables,  she  saw  that  the  wind  was 
driving  up  a  huge,  white,  shining  cloud.  "Isn't  it 
going  to  be  fine  after  all!"  she  thought. 

Re-entering  the  house  by  an  old  and  so-called 
secret  stairway  that  led  straight  to  the  library,  she 
had  to  traverse  that  great  dark  room.  There,  buried 
in  an  armchair  in  front  of  the  hearth  she  saw  Miltoun 
with  a  book  on  his  knee,  not  reading,  but  looking  up 
at  the  picture  of  the  old  Cardinal.  She  hurried  on, 
tiptoeing  over  the  soft  carpet,  holding  her  breath, 
fearful  of  disturbing  the  queer  interview,  feeling 
guilty,  too,  of  her  new  knowledge,  which  she  did  not 
mean  to  impart.  She  had  burnt  her  fingers  once  at 
the  flame  between  them;  she  would  not  do  so  a 
second  time  I 


THE  PATRICIAN  387 

Through  the  window  at  the  far  end  she  saw  that 
the  cloud  had  burst;  it  was  raining  furiously.  She 
regained  her  bedroom  unseen.  In  spite  of  her  joy 
out  there  on  the  moor,  this  last  adventure  of  her  girl- 
hood had  not  been  all  success ;  she  had  again  the  old 
sensations,  the  old  doubts,  the  dissatisfaction  which 
she  had  thought  dead.  Those  two!  To  shut  one's 
eyes,  and  be  happy — was  it  possible!  A  great  rain- 
bow, the  nearest  she  had  ever  seen,  had  sprung  up  in 
the  park,  and  was  come  to  earth  again  in  some  fields 
close  by.  The  sun  wa's  shining  out  already  through 
the  wind-driven  bright  rain.  Jewels  of  blue  had 
begun  to  star  the  black  and  white  and  golden  clouds. 
A  strange  white  light — ghost  of  Spring  passing  in 
this  last  violent  outburst — painted  the  leaves  of 
every  tree;  and  a  hundred  savage  hues  had  come 
down  like  a  motley  of  bright  birds  on  moor  and  fields. 

The  moment  of  desperate  beauty  caught  Barbara 
by  the  throat.  Its  spirit  of  galloping  wildness  flew 
straight  into  her  heart.  She  clasped  her  hands 
across  her  breast  to  try  and  keep  that  moment.  Far 
out,  a  cuckoo  hooted — and  the  immortal  call  passed 
on  the  wind.  In  that  call  all  the  beauty,  and  colour, 
and  rapture  of  life  seemed  to  be  flying  by.  If  she 
could  only  seize  and  evermore  have  it  in  her  heart, 
as  the  buttercups  out  there  imprisoned  the  sun,  or 
the  fallen  raindrops  on  the  sweetbriars  round  the 
windows  enclosed  all  changing  light!  If  only  there 
were  no  chains,  no  walls,  and  finality  were  dead! 

Her  clock  struck  ten.  At  this  time  to-morrow! 
Her  cheeks  turned  hot;  in  a  mirror  she  could  see 


388  THE  PATRICIAN 

them  burning,  her  lips  scornfully  curved,  her  eyes 
strange.  Standing  there,  she  looked  long  at  herself, 
till,  little  by  little,  her  face  lost  every  vestige  of  that 
disturbance,  became  solid  and  resolute  again.  She 
ceased  to  have  the  galloping  wild  feeling  in  her  heart, 
and  instead  felt  cold.  Detached  from  herself  she 
watched,  with  contentment,  her  own  calm  and 
radiant  beauty  resume  the  armour  it  had  for  that 
moment  put  off. 

After  dinner  that  night,  when  the  men  left  the 
dining-hall,  Miltoun  slipped  away  to  his  den.  Of 
all  those  present  in  the  little  church  he  had  seemed 
most  unemotional,  and  had  been  most  moved. 
Though  it  had  been  so  quiet  and  private  a  wedding, 
he  had  resented  all  cheap  festivity  accompanying  the 
passing  of  his  young  sister.  He  would  have  had 
that  ceremony  in  the  little  dark  disused  chapel  at  the 
Court ;  those  two,  and  the  priest  alone.  Here,  in  this 
half-pagan  little  country  church  smothered  hastily 
in  flowers,  with  the  raw  singing  of  the  half-pagan 
choir,  and  all  the  village  curiosity  and  homage — every- 
thing had  jarred,  and  the  stale  aftermath  sickened 
him.  Changing  his  swallow-tail  to  an  old  smoking 
jacket,  he  went  out  on  to  the  lawn.  In  the  wide 
darkness  he  could  rid  himself  of  his  exasperation. 

Since  the  day  of  his  election  he  had  not  once  been 
at  Monkland ;  since  Mrs.  Noel's  flight  he  had  never 
left  London.  In  London  and  work  he  had  buried 
himself;  by  London  and  work  he  had  saved  himself! 
He  had  gone  down  into  the  battle. 


THE  PATRICIAN  389 

Dew  had  not  yet  fallen,  and  he  took  the  path  across 
the  fields.  There  was  no  moon,  no  stars,  no  wind; 
the  cattle  were  noiseless  under  the  trees;  there  were 
no  owls  calling,  no  night-jars  churring,  the  fly-by- 
night  chafers  were  not  abroad.  The  stream  alone 
was  alive  in  the  quiet  darkness.  And  as  Miltoun 
followed  the  wispy  line  of  grey  path  cleaving  the  dim 
glamour  of  daisies  and  buttercups,  there  came  to  him 
the  feeling  that  he  was  in  the  presence,  not  of  sleep, 
but  of  eternal  waiting.  The  sound  of  his  footfalls 
seemed  desecration.  So  devotional  was  that  hush, 
burning  the  spicy  incense  of  millions  of  leaves  and 
blades  of  grass. 

Crossing  the  last  stile  he  came  out,  close  to  her 
deserted  cottage,  under  her  lime-tree,  which  on  the 
night  of  Courtier's  adventure  had  hung  blue-black 
round  the  moon.  On  that  side,  only  a  rail,  and  a 
few  shrubs  confined  her  garden. 

The  house  was  all  dark,  but  the  many  tall  white 
flowers,  like  a  bright  vapour  rising  from  earth,  clung 
to  the  air  above  the  beds.  Leaning  against  the  tree 
Miltoun  gave  himself  to  memory. 

From  the  silent  boughs  which  drooped  round  his 
dark  figure,  a  little  sleepy  bird  uttered  a  faint  cheep; 
a  hedgehog,  or  some  small  beast  of  night,  rustled 
away  in  the  grass  close  by;  a  moth  flew  past,  seeking 
its  candle  flame.  And  something  in  Miltoun's  heart 
took  wings  after  it,  searching  for  the  warmth  and 
light  of  his  blown  candle  of  love.  Then,  in  the  hush 
he  heard  a  sound  as  of  a  branch  ceaselessly  trailed 
through  long  grass,  fainter  and  fainter,  more  and 


390  THE  PATRICIAN 

more  distinct;  again  fainter;  but  nothing  could  he 
see  that  should  make  that  homeless  sound.  And  the 
sense  of  some  near  but  unseen  presence  crept  on  him, 
till  the  hair  moved  on  his  scalp.  If  God  would  light 
the  moon  or  stars,  and  let  him  see!  If  God  would 
end  the  expectation  of  this  night,  let  one  wan  glimmer 
down  into  her  garden,  and  one  wan  glimmer  into  his 
breast!  But  it  stayed  dark,  and  the  homeless  noise 
never  ceased.  The  weird  thought  came  to  Miltoun 
that  it  was  made  by  his  own  heart,  wandering  out 
there,  trying  to  feel  warm  again.  He  closed  his  eyes 
and  at  once  knew  that  it  was  not  his  heart,  but  indeed 
some  external  presence,  unconsoled.  And  stretching 
his  hands  out  he  moved  forward  to  arrest  that  sound. 
As  he  reached  the  railing,  it  ceased.  And  he  saw  a 
flame  leap  up,  a  pale  broad  pathway  of  light  blanch- 
ing the  grass. 

And,  realizing  that  she  was  there,  within,  he 
gasped.  His  finger-nails  bent  and  broke  against  the 
iron  railing  without  his  knowing.  It  was  not  as  on 
that  night  when  the  red  flowers  on  her  windowsill 
had  wafted  their  scent  to  him;  it  was  no  sheer  over- 
powering rush  of  passion.  Profounder,  more  ter- 
rible, was  this  rising  up  within  him  of  yearning  for 
love — as  if,  now  defeated,  it  would  nevermore  stir, 
but  lie  dead  on  that  dark  grass  beneath  those  dark 
boughs.  And  if  victorious — what  then?  He  stole 
back  under  the  tree. 

He  could  see  little  white  moths  travelling  down 
that  path  of  lamplight;  he  could  see  the  white 
flowers  quite  plainly  now,  a  pale  watch  of  blossoms 


THE  PATRICIAN  391 

guarding  the  dark  sleepy  ones;  and  he  stood,  not 
reasoning,  hardly  any  longer  feeling;  stunned,  bat- 
tered by  struggle.  His  face  and  hands  were  sticky 
with  the  honey-dew,  slowly,  invisibly  distilling  from 
the  lime-tree.  He  bent  down  and  felt  the  grass. 
And  suddenly  there  came  over  him  the  certainty  of 
her  presence.  Yes,  she  was  there — out  on  the  ve- 
randah! He  could  see  her  white  figure  from  head  to 
foot;  and,  not  realizing  that  she  could  not  see  him, 
he  expected  her  to  utter  some  cry.  But  no  sound 
came  from  her,  no  gesture;  she  turned  back  into  the 
house.  Miltoun  ran  forward  to  the  railing.  But 
there,  once  more,  he  stopped — unable  to  think,  un- 
able to  feel;  as  it  were  abandoned  by  himself.  And 
he  suddenly  found  his  hand  up  at  his  mouth,  as 
though  there  were  blood  there  to  be  staunched  that 
had  escaped  from  his  heart. 

Still  holding  that  hand  before  his  mouth,  and 
smothering  the  sound  of  his  feet  in  the  long  grass, 
he  crept  away* 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IN  the  great  glass  house  at  Ravensham,  Lady 
Casterley  stood  close  to  some  Japanese  lilies,  with  a 
letter  in  her  hand.  Her  face  was  very  white,  for  it 
was  the  first  day  she  had  been  allowed  down  after 
an  attack  of  influenza;  nor  had  the  hand  in  which 
she  held  the  letter  its  usual  steadiness.  She  read : 

"MONKLAND  COURT. 

"  Just  a  line,  dear,  before  the  post  goes,  to  tell  you  that  Babs 
has  gone  off  happily.  The  child  looked  beautiful.  She  sent 
you  her  love,  and  some  absurd  message — that  you  would  be 
glad  to  hear,  she  was  perfectly  safe,  with  both  feet  firmly  on 
the  ground." 

A  grim  little  smile  played  on  Lady  Casterley's  pale 
lips:  Yes,  indeed,  and  time  too!  The  child  had 
been  very  near  the  edge  of  the  cliffs!  Very  near 
committing  a  piece  of  romantic  folly!  That  was 
well  over!  And  raising  the  letter  again,  she  read  on : 

"We  were  all  down  for  it,  of  course,  and  come  back  to- 
morrow. Geoffrey  is  quite  cut  up.  Things  can't  be  what 
they  were  without  our  Babs.  I've  watched  Eustace  very  care- 
fully, and  I  really  believe  he's  safely  over  that  affair  at  last. 
He  is  doing  extraordinarily  well  in  the  House  just  now.  Geof- 
frey says  his  speech  on  the  Poor  Law  was  head  and  shoulders 
the  best  made." 

39* 


THE  PATRICIAN  393 

Lady  Casterley  let  fall  the  hand  which  held  the 
letter.  Safe?  Yes,  he  was  safe!  He  had  done  the 
right — the  natural  thing!  And  in  time  he  would  be 
happy!  He  would  rise  now  to  that  pinnacle  of  de- 
sired authority  which  she  had  dreamed  of  for  him, 
ever  since  he  was  a  tiny  thing,  ever  since  his  little 
thin  brown  hand  had  clasped  hers  in  their  wander- 
ings amongst  the  flowers,  and  the  furniture  of  tall 
rooms.  But,  as  she  stood — crumpling  the  letter, 
grey-white  as  some  small  resolute  ghost,  among  her 
tall  lilies  that  filled  with  their  scent  the  great  glass 
house — shadows  flitted  across  her  face.  Was  it  the 
fugitive  noon  sunshine  ?  Or  was  it  some  glimmering 
perception  of  the  old  Greek  saying — 'Character  is 
Fate;'  some  sudden  sense  of  the  universal  truth  that 
all  are  in  bond  to  their  own  natures,  and  what  a  man 
has  most  desired  shall  in  the  end  enslave  him  ? 


THE  END 


upueg* 

Library 


A    001  263  620    5 


